


But All The Great Voyagers Return

by prosepoet



Series: Where We Love [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers Family, Bucky Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Poor Bucky, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Room, Sam Wilson is just along for the ride, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Build, Steve Feels, Steve Is a Good Bro, Tony Is Not Helping, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:50:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1802599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosepoet/pseuds/prosepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers has spent over a year looking for The Winter Soldier. It turns out he'd been taking the wrong approach. sequel to "On The Shore I Stand Alone"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Like the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> So I told myself when the first story in this series reached a thousand hits, I would post the second one. So, tada! (If you haven't read On The Shore I Stand Alone, you might want to in order to get the theme of things.)
> 
> I don't think it would be a problem, but I very generally allude to past panic attacks so if that may trigger you, watch out.
> 
> I would really like to continue this, but only if people are actually interested. If you like it/want more please leave kudos or comments! 
> 
> title is from Barbara Howe's poem "The Homecoming"

_...Though we who wait never have done_  
 _Fearing the piteous accidents,_  
 _The coral reef sharp as the bones_  
 _It has betrayed, fate’s cormorant_  
 _Unleashed, whose diving’s never done...._

_...But all the great voyagers return_  
 _Home like the hunter, like the hare_  
 _To its burrow; below, earth’s axle turns_  
 _To speed their coming, the following fair_  
 _Winds bless their voyage, blow their safe return_

 

Steve spent the entire night mulling over the words Thor had spoken to him earlier.

They had kept him preoccupied during dinner, as his band of super-powered misfit toys ate, drank, and laughed to their hearts content. They had consumed his thoughts as he’d trudged up his floor, exhausted at the effort it took to keep his happy face on for the crowd. He considered how Thor’d summarized his situation... _you are but a stranger in a foreign land without the memories of home._ When they thawed him from the ice, they’d told him this place saturated with painfully bright lights was New York City; they’d insisted that the streets drowning in advertisements promoting clothes no one would wear, were the same ones he’d strode along in the midst of America’s war and depression; they’d told him this was the future, and he’d realized that the science fiction writers of his time had gotten it so wrong that he didn’t even have the comfort of familiar literature to make the 21st century seem a little less alien.

 _Asgard was not truly my home without my brother…_ Thor’d said. Even though Steve had slowly assimilated himself into the flow of the 21 st century, he’d still tried to find something recognizable in the modern bells, whistles, gadgets, gizmos, and social norms. He’d even visited his old neighborhood in Brooklyn, finding his old hang out spots, visiting his and Bucky’s old block, even stopping by a couple of alleys he’d been beaten up in. He’d searched, almost desperately, for something…stable; something he could relate to now that everything in his world had changed so drastically. Nevertheless, there hadn’t been anything quite familiar enough to make him feel at home. That is, there hadn’t been until Bucky had shown up. Until Buck had been standing there on the bridge looking at Steve with a murder’s eyes but still Bucky, clear as day. And if anything was stable and familiar…if anything was home it was Bucky.

Steve’d peeled himself out of his clothes and retreated to the shower, where he put his best effort into focusing solely on the scalding water that was causing his skin to flush near crimson. However, when he eased onto his couch and attempted to watch the baseball highlights on ESPN, his mind had gone back to Thor’s words once again. This time the man’s voice echoed in his head saying _your friend likely seeks home as much as you do. I assure you, you will both find it._ Was Thor insinuating that Bucky was looking for Steve, too? That wasn’t possible. He and Sam had stayed in DC the few months, looking into things that may have been happening locally before they began their journey outside of the Nation’s capital. If Bucky had wanted to find him, he could have just showed up at his apartment. In fact in had been four months in before Tony had called and offered him a home at the tower. 

_( “I got the tower restored! and buddy I mean **fully** restored, offices for the really important Stark Industries staff, mostly Pepper, a gym and a fly room—a **fly** room! So I can fly in the house with Thor and your buddy Sam, there are even some ledges and tall things for Legolas to perch on—and get this, there is a floor here just for you, well it’s more like a wing, you’ll share the floor with Sam if he wants to come along but... Come on man, I know you want to be close to your favorite genius billionaire philanthropist…Pep’s a little displeased by the playboy thing, but anyway, whaddyou you say?”)_

He and Sam had packed their duffle bags and headed to New York, but still, The Winter Soldier was the best assassin on the planet and Steve wasn’t hiding. If Bucky was looking for him, he was right there to be found. So what had Thor meant? Steve finally clicked the TV off and drug himself to the bed, lying down on top of the blankets and staring at the ceiling, still trying to make sense of Thor’s words. No, not to make sense of them—they _made sense_ on their own—but what was Steve supposed to do with them?

 

When Steve finally drifted of to sleep, he dreamt of the day Bucky had saved him—once again—from a fight in the alley. This time he'd been dressed in his uniform. He dreamt of the way Bucky slung his arm across Steve’s shoulder, the way his lips stretch across his face in that signature smile, the way he called Steve a “punk” so easily and tousled his hair. He remembered how that night they’d gone to the Stark Expo with two dames whose names now escaped him. How he’d been right behind Bucky’s shoulder most of the night and Bucky had glanced back at him with a smile every time something exciting happened. Until, of course, Steve had wandered off towards the recruitment area.

He dreamt that Bucky had turned to smile at him, but he’d been gone. 

Steve awoke with a start that morning. A glance at his alarm clock—he preferred it to the alarm on his phone—told him that the time was just after 5 a.m. Feeling a bit of clarity and a lot of hope, he drug on his clothes and grabbed his helmet and his shield. After half jogging down the stairs, he hopped on his bike and sped back to his apartment in to D.C.

Part of him expected Bucky to be there, waiting for him when he arrived. Of course that part was entirely over zealous and unrealistic, but still, he sighed at the disappointment and chucked his duffle bag in the corner. He didn’t have a plan for the day and given the ungodly hour he’d awakened and the short time it took to get from DC to New York, there was still an entire day waiting ahead of him. He elected on a run, a short 20 miles. After a shower he sat at his island and made quick phone calls to most of the Avengers. For the rest of the afternoon he sat on his terrace and sketched. His fingers itched to sketch Bucky from memory, but he repressed the urge and settled on drawing the balcony view of D.C. It was different from drawing Brooklyn or other places in New York. There were no boxy skyscrapers making stripes on the skyline, but rather more flat land, low buildings, and diverse shapes. It kept him occupied until his stomach rumbled and after take-out from a Chinese place around the corner, he showered, fell onto his bed, and slept.

 

He dreamt of the time when he was 11 and he’d tried to run away from the orphanage. He’d tucked a blanket and the probably stolen sketchbook Bucky’d given him for his birthday into a knapsack and snuck out in the dead of a blistery winter night. He hadn’t been afraid, though a young orphan kid wandering down the Brooklyn streets at 3 am should have been. Not knowing exactly where to go, he tucked himself into the corner of a back alley, wrapped himself in the blanket, and tried to sleep. However, not thirty minutes had passed before he accepted that he probably wasn’t going to sleep at all and instead took out his sketchbook. He’d looked at it for a moment, sighed, and shoved both items back into his bag, dragging it back over his shoulder, and heading back through the winter night to the orphanage.

The next morning at breakfast, Bucky came and sat next to him with a tentative smile.

“Why’dya come back?” He’d asked. and leave it to Bucky to know about Steve’s late night adventure even though Steve hadn’t told him. Steve looked down at his sketchbook, where he was drawing the nearly rotten apple and stale toast as opposed to eating it. He smiled a little to himself.

“Thought about how pitiful you’d be here without me,” He said jokingly, knocking his frail shoulder against Bucky’s stronger one. “Jerk”

Bucky laughed, “Yea, whatever, punk.”

_____ 

On day three, Tony called.

“So let me get this straight,” He’d said, “You’re looking for him by not looking for him? That’s…ok, well that’s—”

Steve replied that he was doing what every one had asked of him, and he didn’t understand why it was such a big deal. Tony had muttered touché, before remarking away from the receiver _Hey, don’t send any more questions through me ok, if you want to deal with sass master Steve, do it yourself_. Steve chuckled when he heard Natasha’s brief Russian reply—probably a curse—and hung up before Tony got back on the line. He realized the days were boring when he didn’t wasn’t on an op or recovering from one. In fact, the days since he’d left the tower and came back to D.C were the first days he’d had free since he started working for S.H.I.E.L.D. When he wasn’t saving the world with the Avengers he was on an op for the organization. When he wasn’t on assignment he was in and out of the SHIELD headquarters, completing paperwork, sitting through briefings, going through SHIELD’s intense MMA hand-to-hand combat training, and even occasionally working with a few junior agents. And when he wasn’t doing those things, he was trying to reacquaint himself with the world—and that was definitely not an activity he considered pleasurable.

“Hey Jarvis?”  Stark had only let him live in the apartment thirty days before he’d come through and ‘bumped up the tech.’

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” The AI returned.

“What do people do on their day’s off?”

After a lengthy list, he decided to go to a movie. He hadn’t seen any 21st century films and the one he settled on was a war drama—familiar and fitting, in his opinion. When he returned home, his apartment was still empty and undisturbed.

 

That night he dreamt of the late hours after the rescue mission that had changed him from Captain America: dancing monkey to Captain America: leader and war hero. It was far past any reasonable hour and he’d just chucked his helmet and plopped onto the ground in his tent when Bucky sauntered in with a smile and plopped beside him.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Steve admitted quietly shaking his head.

“Nah,” Bucky’d said, lying out hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. “I knew you’d find your way back to me, punk.” He yawned and rolled over on his side, commandeering Steve’s bedroll and huddling in. After a few minutes had passed, Steve noticed Bucky was inched over making himself as small as possible and leaving as much room as he could unoccupied in front of him. Steve shook his head again, even with Bucky's efforts it would hardly be enough room for him.But he slid down beside Bucky anyway, his broad back and shoulders pressed gently to Bucky’s chest. Bucky threw a non-committal arm across Steve’s ribcage—no longer tangible through his t-shirt—and sighed. Steve was on the brink of sleep when he heard Bucky whisper, “You always do.”

_____

Five days in it stormed a thunderous monstrosity of a storm: a power line was down, so there was no cable. Steve wanted to sketch, but he’d filled his last sketchbook. There were no phone calls. There was no Bucky.

_____

It had been a week. Seven days. And Steve had busied himself until he could keep busy anymore. He had ran, drawn, sketched, paced, twiddled his thumbs, bit his fingernails, and he cursed himself for being so _damn_ stupid. Bucky was gone. He was “in the wind,” he was “a ghost,” he was probably dead or recaptured by Hydra and Steve didn’t even know where to start. He jogged to the gym and pounded the bag until he couldn’t breathe. He took a breath. He pounded the bag some more.

That night, his dream was simple: Bucky was falling off of the train, down the cliff, into the snow and the hands of Hydra over and over and over again.

 

 

“Bucky!” Steve sprang up from his bed, hands grasping, heart pounding, and sweating bullets. He shook his head, blinking himself awake from the nightmare before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and resting his head in his hands. “Fuck.” He muttered. The explicative felt good on his tongue, released some of the tension stored in his arms. Slowly the feeling of rapid thudding in his chest subsided into dull, bitter ache. “Fuck!” He exclaimed again, louder this time, swiping a pillow off of the bed and into the wall. He would have punched the wall itself, but his entire arm would have gone through the plaster. He was moving to grab the pillow when he heard…shifting in the living room right outside his bedroom; stealthy feet almost mute against the carpet; the soft, barely audible sigh of the leather couch cushions as someone settled onto them; one resounding crack of a knuckle.

 

Hesitantly, Steve approached his bedroom door and pushed in open. Sitting on his couch, eyes downcast and hands fisted, was James Buchanan Barnes.

 

Steve’s breath was shallow and a knot was swelling in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Fifteen months of scouring the world looking for a ghost, and now that ghost was in his living room. Even though he’d been expecting it, even though that’s why he’d came back to D.C, he was still overcome with shock, and even more so relief. He wanted to run to Bucky, but he knew that wasn’t the best idea. Instead he opted to step into the man’s line of vision. He knew Bucky had heard him enter the room, but he assumed maybe it would seem less threatening if Bucky could see him. Steve’s eyes widened a little when he got a good look at Bucky’s face. His five o’clock shadow was turning into the beginning of a scraggly beard. His hair had grown and was uncombed, pulled haphazardly into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were glazed over, a little red and definitely dejected. His hands were dirty—well the flesh one was—as were his clothes. He looked—frail—like he maybe hadn’t eaten for a while. Steve’s friends had been saying _he_ looked like shit, well Bucky looked worse. Steve crouched, so that he would be eye level with Bucky if the man decided to look up, and finally he breathed out

 “Hey, Buck.” It was such whisper that Steve was unsure Bucky could even hear him from across the room. But Bucky’s head inclined a little. “I’ve been looking all over for you, bud.”

“You’ve killed or destroyed most of what Hydra has left.”

“Yea,” Steve chuckled humorlessly, “I was kind of upset…about what…about what they did to you.”

“You don’t want to kill me.” 

“You know I don’t want to kill you, Buck.” Silence.

“I just needed to make sure.” Bucky breathed quietly. “Everything…my mind is playing tricks...all the time I-I just had to make sure”

“I told you on the helicarrier. I would have…” Steve swallowed, “I would have let you beat me to death before I killed you again.”

“Again?”

“You remember…the train…”

“I fell.”

“I should have caught you.” Bucky lifted his eyes to finally meet Steve’s. “I’m so sorry Bu-“

“That wasn’t your fault.” He murmured through clenched teeth.

“It…You were following me—you all were, the Howling Commandos, I mean—but _you_ …wherever I went you went, too—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Bucky said again, sternly this time with full voice behind the words. “ _I_ had to protect you. I remember. I was supposed to…I… we lived in Brooklyn? You were always getting beat up. You were so small but you…God you _always_ jumped in any fight you thought was unfair, anywhere there was a bully you…and I had to…I always…I remember I was supposed to protect you.”

Bucky screwed his eyes shut tight, squeezing his fists even tighter, the memories he’d been recalling over the past 15 months springing forward. “…And then you weren’t small anymore. But you were still picking fights…with the Nazis, with Hydra because they were bullies…powerful bullies…but we fought them. You were my…you were Steve…even though you were big, I remember you were still little Stevie to me and _I_ was supposed to protect _you_ and I was…I was trying…I fell and-” Bucky’s lips clamped shut and he shivered thinking about whatever he’d been getting ready to say. Instead, he settled again on, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Silence settled over the room, strained and uncomfortable enough to make Steve shift his weight from one leg to the other restlessly. “What happened, Bucky?” Steve knew it was an awful question—too open and vague with too much potential for answers Steve wasn’t prepared for. But it was the only thing he could come up with, and he had a feeling Bucky would understand that he was asking about.

“I was…at first I was just watching you. I didn’t remember anything…I knew…I didn’t want to hurt you but I was…confused. But still I mean, I knew you…being close…just in proximity it felt like…” Bucky paused for a breath, “I can’t explain…it was just like the orphanage and like Brooklyn and it was right..like-”

“Home.” Steve completed. Bucky exhaled visibly.

“Yea…but then you and that guy—the guy with the wings—you went to the city. And it didn’t feel right anymore. I couldn’t…I didn’t…belong there. It was too much…it was just…too…I—”

“You were over-stimulated. New York’s crazier now than it was back then, louder and brighter...you were just overw--”

 “I was _afraid_.” Bucky nearly growls the last word, spitting it out like bile. “I was terrified…I-I almost lost my shit. There was so much that I…I was _weak._ I was _-”_

“Its ok, Bucky. You weren’t weak. It was just a lot going on with your memories coming back and all.”

Bucky still looked pained. “After New York I still tried…I tried to keep up while you were chasing Hydra but the…there was just so much…I was…I tried. I told myself to keep up, to stay with you, but I was just so _fucked up._ ”

“Buck—” Steve started. But Bucky continued speaking as if Steve hadn’t made a sound.

“I came back to D.C. I could only keep my shit together if I…when I was here, when I was close to here because I was…” With shaky hands Bucky looked up at Steve, “it felt close to you, it was…safe. And anywhere…everywhere else it was too much. I…I bummed it. Slept out back behind the building...picked money off some guys in suits. I…I stayed up here, sometimes. slept on the floor by the door…only if it was raining and I couldn’t scrape up enough for a motel…it just…it was the only way I could feel _grounded…_ ”

Steve tried to think of something to say, but nothing would come to mind. Nothing besides _God, Bucky I’m sorry_ and even though he meant it, those words were worthless. Before he could dwell on it, Bucky spoke again. “…and then I started to remember more…I mean, I remembered how it was—how _we_ were. How I was supposed to protect you, and you were, would…you always came back for me if things fell a part...” His voice softened, “…If _we_ fell a part. That’s how it went, right? You kept saying that…that _thing_ ‘Im with you.,.” you kept…that’s what it meant, right?”

“Yea, Buck.” Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and tried not to avoid Bucky’s desperate, questioning gaze. The morning after his talk with Thor he’d realized he didn’t need to chase Bucky, Bucky would be somewhere familiar waiting to be found. That’s how they worked, only in Steve’s hysteria he’d forgotten. Bucky was panicked and traumatized but he'd remembered. Steve had asked him the broadest question he could muster but Bucky had known exactly what he meant, just like he always did. But when Bucky needed Steve, Steve's head had been preoccupied with hate and desperation to think clearly. To remember. He cursed himself a thousand times. “I got you and you got me.”

“I told myself if I stayed around here long enough you would come back…you-you always come back… I told myself 'Steve is good' 'Steve can help'… don't to lose it…but I can’t… Steve, I cant hold it together. I don’t…I don’t know…” Bucky’s eyes were screwed tight again and Steve could see his chest began to heave with impending hyperventilation. Rising slowly from his crouch, Steve crept over and knelt in front of Bucky. Bucky froze for a minute but when Steve reached for his wrist, he slid shakily off the couch into Steve’s arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me…but something … _something_ is wrong.” Steve tugged harder at the whispered confession until his arms were wrapped completely around Bucky’s back and Bucky’s were tight against his. Bucky’s voice rattled as he choked out, “What’s wrong with me, Steve?”

Steve forced his own eyes shut and buried his face in the crook of the man’s neck, not caring that it was grimy and damp with sweat, only caring that it was Bucky’s neck. Only caring that it was Bucky’s hair tickling his temple, Bucky’s hand gripping his shirt for dear life, Bucky’s breath trembling against his shoulder as Steve whispered to him, “Nothing, Bucky. Nothing that we can’t fix.”  and hoped it was true.

 


	2. The Swamped Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky asked for Steve's help, but Steve can't figure out how to give it to him.

Steve couldn’t be sure how many minutes—or hours?—had passed since he’d first taken Bucky into his arms, though judging by the dull ache creeping slowly into his knees and the prickling tingle working its way into his bare feet, it had been a while. Bucky’s murmuring had subsided and he’d began to go slack in his arms, breath slow, steady, and laced with sleep. He could easily lift Bucky back to the couch; yet, a part of Steve was content just to hold the sleeping soldier in his arms; the part that had for the first time reversed the roles when he huddled into _Bucky’s_ bed and drug _Bucky’s_ back against _his_ chest after some sucker had nearly broke his boys sternum for trying to defend Steve; the part that had hugged Bucky tight and pressed the taller man’s face to the crook of his neck while Bucky wept drunkenly—very drunkenly—about bitter dames, the depression, and Steve being the only family he had or had ever had; the part that had laughed when he sidled up behind Bucky in some dark and damp place during he war, joking that he was finally big enough to be a proper big spoon.

Steve sighed and tightened his grip a bit at the memories. Bucky’s body radiated the same familiar heat that sank into Steve’s skin like steam from a sauna, relaxing him deeply. Only now he was firmer—all taut muscle and rigid planes—and he was heavy leaning slightly against Steve. Not the kind of heavy that was burdensome; it was more like being tucked cozily under a weighty blanket on the coldest morning of winter, comforted by the light pressure of the excess weight. Bucky’s metal arm still clung tightly to Steve’s middle, but the flesh arm had begun to droop, overly calloused fingertips causing a faint scratching sensation through Steve’s thin t-shirt. The minutes eased by silently, until Bucky made a low sound and seconds later, another. Steve speculated that maybe he was dreaming, but Bucky hadn’t stirred in the slightest. The third time the rumble sounded, Steve recognized it as the low growl of Bucky’s stomach. He wanted to chuckle, but the solemn realization that God only knows the last time Bucky’d eaten sliced through any smidge of humor that he could have mustered.

 He shifted Bucky from the floor to the couch with ease, and was moving away to grab the throw blanket he kept in the front closet when Bucky’s hand clamped around his wrist in panic. His eyes were suddenly wide open and wild, his breath immediately ragged and shallow.

“Steve,” Was apparently all he could summon by way of explanation and dutifully Steve knelt beside him.

“Its ok, Bucky. You’re hungry, I’m just going to get you something to eat.”

“Are you going to…you can’t…I mean—”

“I’m not going to leave,” Steve answered. When it was obvious Bucky didn’t believe him he offered his hand, “I’m not leaving you, Buck. I promise. Ok?” Bucky nodded hastily. Steve pulled him until he was sitting. “Breathe, Bucky. Slowly. You’re safe, its all right. and I’m right here, see? I’m not leaving.”

Bucky’s grip loosened on Steve’s wrist and clamped around his offered hand, his eyes were still feral and his breathing labored. “Im with you,” Steve continued, eyes purposefully calm, sure, and trained on Bucky’s. “Remember? Im with you.” He repeated the phrase soothingly until Bucky’s breathing began return to normal. “I’m with you, Buck.”

“-till…till…” Bucky finally stammered. He screwed his eyes shut, searching. “…till the end…” When the words wouldn’t come to him, Bucky looked to Steve with pleading eyes.

“--till the end of the line.” Steve finished. “Yea…”

 

When Bucky was finally calm enough to let go of Steve completely, Steve asked him when he’d eaten last.

“Dunno.” He mumbled in reply. Steve swallowed the sour taste in his mouth.

“Ok. Do you want to lie down while I cook something? You could lie here or in my bed if you wanted.”

“I don’t think…I can’t really, don’t really sleep too much especially during the day.”

“You don’t have to sleep,” Steve offered. Bucky nodded absently, but didn’t reply.  “…or you could come sit in the kitchen while I cook.” Bucky nodded with more surety this time, shifted to rise from the couch, and followed Steve into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Steve rummaged through his cabinets and fridge. He didn’t have a lot of luxuries—pancakes, fruit, potatoes, or other things people may have eaten for breakfast—but he had a hearty amount of his preferred staples. Working quickly and efficiently, and watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye, he put all the bacon that would fit on the griddle—nearly an entire package—and just as much in a pan that he slid into the oven. He cracked and scrambled 10 eggs and took out 12 slices of bread for toast. Fifteen minutes later, his slid a plate piled with bacon, eggs, and toast and a tall glass of orange juice in front of Bucky. Bucky looked at the food tentatively, but didn’t touch it until Steve was sitting across from him with his own plate. They ate in relative silence: Steve asked if the food tasted all right, Bucky grunted his approval; Steve apologized for not having anything more, Bucky gave him a look that clearly suggested Steve was a fool. Steve could tell Bucky was trying not to shovel food into his mouth faster than he could chew, but he still cleared his plate before Steve did. He noticed as well that Bucky didn’t get up for seconds until Steve had. Even then he didn’t take the last of anything…making sure Steve got enough, it had always been a habit. Steve placed his plate in the sink after finishing his second helping and took Bucky’s to serve him a third.

“I don—” Bucky started.

“Its ok. Eat it. I’m full, and I can cook more if I need to.” Another jerky head nod. Steve moved around the kitchen, wiping up after himself and trying to catalogue what he knew.

A lot of things were unclear, but of a few things Steve was certain:

 

1\. Bucky hadn’t been hostile or combative, so at least he wasn’t dangerous. Not an immediate threat, that is. Steve didn’t know the extent of Bucky’s trauma and training, and his instincts as a soldier and a leader told him that to completely rule out the possibility that Bucky could turn violent at any moment would be senile. The man _had_ tried to kill him. Still, Bucky was afraid. More afraid than Steve’s ever seen him. And he was asking for help. So Steve doubted that things would escalate to combat.

2\. His strongest memories were instinctual. Not only making sure Steve got enough food, but also he’d _known_ he was safe close to Steve, he _knew_ he was supposed to protect Steve, he _knew_ Steve would come for him. Being close to Steve’s apartment—his _home—_ had staved off Bucky’s panic attacks to some capacity. He hadn’t hesitated to fall into Steve’s arms the same way Steve used to fall into his, hadn’t shied away from the intimacy of the embrace. But he hadn’t expressed why he’d done, or had known to do, any of those things. Only that he’d defended Steve from some bullies—Hydra included—but that was barely the tip of the iceberg.

3\. Bucky was clearly…mentally unwell. He had followed Steve to New York, but he hadn’t stayed because he’d been too overwhelmed. He’d nearly spiraled into a panic attack twice in first hour he’d been in Steve’s apartment. He’d clearly remembered and repeated their phrase-- “Im with you til the end of the line”--but later he couldn’t recall the end of the phrase at all. He wasn’t the same Bucky Steve had known so many years ago—instead, he was far more frail, tentative, scared, and nearly helpless. Steve supposed Bucky was suffering from an anxiety disorder or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—or both. But it didn’t matter, because he was still Bucky and there was little that mattered besides that. 

Steve sighed and took a glance at Bucky. He’d cleaned his plate and was downing the last of his orange juice. He needed to see someone that could actually help him, what Steve knew was pointless if he couldn’t do anything to change it. Still, SHEILD was shredded. And even if the psych team there would have seen him—which they probably wouldn’t have—it wouldn’t have been under any conditions Steve would have been comfortable with. He could call on the Avengers, between Bruce’s tentative medical knowledge, Tony’s genius and contacts, and Natasha and Clint’s backgrounds, he figured they would at least know someone who could help, even if they couldn’t themselves.

But would he be able to convince the man to come with him to New York? Maybe. But then, would that be the best thing for Bucky? Would it worsen his anxiety? Would it make him feel betrayed? Would he get overwhelmed again and disappear for the better part of another year? Who knows?

Steve sighed again. The truth was that he needed to talk to Bucky. He made his way back to the island and took a seat on the stool across from Bucky.

“I don’t really know what to do now.” Bucky confessed. Steve chuckled humorlessly.

“Me either,” Steve said, “I think…I think I know some people who might be able to help you…”

Bucky looked up at him for a long moment. “Your friends in New York.” He said blankly.

“Yea…”

“No.”

“Bucky-”

“No.”

“Just liste-”

“No!” Bucky slammed his hands on the island and stood in one swift motion. He was glaring at Steve but it was a feeble attempt, fear clearly shining through the mask of toughness. Steve stood as well and placed on hand over Bucky’s on the table.

“Look, Bucky. There’s…you need more. If I could give you everything you need to get better I swear I would.” Steve pauses to swallow around the sheer amount of truth in that statement. If he could fix all of Bucky’s brokenness, he wouldn’t think twice about it. But he cant, a the weight of his inadequacy is like a boot on his throat. “If I could do it all, if I could give you all the help you needed _I would_. But I cant, Buck. You need to see a doctor. A professional. Someone that can help with your panic attacks, and your memories, and even your arm.” Bucky slumps down into his chair, taking his eyes away from Steve’s face, and looking down at the table. It’s a moment before his voice, soft and anguished, meets Steve’s ears again.

“Please,” He began, “Please don’t make me.”

Steve’s heart has broken a thousand times in the past 15 months, and nearly as many times this day alone. But now, hearing Bucky’s plea, is the first time its completely shattered. He can imagine it—Hyrda, Zola, all the people who had a part in making Bucky The Winter Soldier—he can imagine them in his place. And he can imagine Bucky, capable only of begging for mercy. He can imagine him after they’ve beaten or tortured all his will to fight out of him, begging _please._ Asking them, pleading with them as they take Bucky out and stuff The Winter Soldier inside _please don’t._ As they force him into whatever contraption they used to scramble his brains and destroy his memories _please don’t make me._ Steve thinks he might vomit. For the better part of 70 years Bucky’s been forced to do things he doesn’t want to do, no agency, no autonomy, no say in his own life or actions. He swears to himself he won’t do that to Bucky. He can’t. “I’ll never make you do anything, Bucky. Never,” and he means it. Even if it means he has to figure this all out on his own. “If you don’t want to go, we will stay right here and I’ll figure something out. But…Just think about it, ok?” 

Steve sits across from Bucky for a long time after that, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. He only flexes and fists his metal hand with an unnatural amount of focus. Steve asks if the arm is bothering him. He says no. He doesn’t fidget anymore.

“I didn’t mean to upset you” Steve says quietly, when he can’t take the silent stillness any more.

“I’m not upset.” Bucky replies.

“Would you…I mean I could leave you alone for a while…” Bucky’s head shoots up his eyes catch Steve’s with terror.

“No, I’m sorry. Please I’ll do anything, I didn’t mean to—I…I” He rambles quickly.

“No no, that’s not what I mean. I don’t….that isn’t a, its not a threat.” Steve could kick himself. “I just meant if you just want time alone, I mean if you wanted to think or sort out your thoughts, I can keep busy in the the living room or hit the shower or something-”

“Shower?” It’s the first time he’s heard Bucky sound the least bit hopeful all day. “Could…could I?”

“Yea, Buck, of course. C’mon I’ll show you where it is.”

Steve finds him a set of sweats and a t-shit, shows him where to find the towels, and gives a quick tutorial on how to operate the shower, and before he makes it back to the couch there is a steady flow of steam escaping from the cracked bathroom door. Bucky hadn’t wanted it closed. Steve hadn’t questioned it.

Kicking his legs up onto the table, Steve takes a deep breath. He hadn’t had any real expectations of how things would go when he and Bucky were reunited, but he hadn’t though it would be this…exhausting. He heaved himself off the couch and to his room to retrieve his phone. He dialed Sam and before he could drop down onto the bed the man was on the line.

“What’s up man? The tower isn’t the same without you bro, when are you coming back?”

“Hey Sam. I’m not sure, soon maybe.”

“Man you’ve got to. You’re the only one that can go toe to toe with Thor in _anything_. Yesterday, Clint tried to go slice for slice with him… he ate two whole New York pizzas and threw up in the kitchen sink” Sam laughs. “Pretty sure Natasha and Tony both threatened to kill him.”

“Jesus I cant leave you guys alone for three days without you threatening to kill each other?” Steve jokes.

“Hey, its not me boss. This is your crowd I’m just a house guest.”

“Yea, right Wilson. Once you suit up with the Avengers there’s no turning back.”

“Yea, I slipped up when I let you and Natasha in my house” Steve laughs. “A laugh, a honest to God laugh? Man what’ve you been doing out th—oh shit.”

“Yea.”

“You—he—shit, _really?_ ”

“Yea.”

“I’ve gotta tell Tony he owes me 50 bucks”

“You made a bet?”

“Yea, but for what its worth I was in your corner.” Steve chuckles. “So… what happened?”

“I woke up and he was on my couch.”

“Just like that?”

“Yea. After everything the past year…just like that.”

“How is he? I mean is he Bucky or is he, you know, The Winter Soldier?”

“I don’t…I don’t think he’s either.”

“Shit.”

“He needs help.”

“You guys coming to New York then, right? Tony has half the shrinks in Manhattan on speed dial since Pepper found out he was having those panic attacks.”

Steve sighs, covering his eyes with his forearm. “I don’t think its gonna be that easy.”


	3. Beneath Behemoth’s Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has episodes. Steve calls them episodes because he doesn't think there is really a word that encompasses their severity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this story makes me incredibly happy (even if you can't tell by this chapter)   
> if reading it makes you happy (even if you can't tell by this chapter) let it be known! 
> 
> warning: graphic-ish descriptions of torture follow

Bucky has episodes. Steve calls them episodes because he doesn't think any other words--panic attack, flashback--really encompass their severity.

The occurrences on the first day—when confusion and desperation had caused Bucky to fall apart in Steve’s arms, when fright and panic had led to Bucky nearly breaking Steve’s hand in a death grip— _those_ had been panic attacks. _These_ were an entirely different class of breakdown. At least in Steve’s mind.

The first time it happens is Bucky’s fifth day in the apartment.

Technically, it started because the day before Steve hadn’t wanted to leave Bucky alone while he walked down to the market. Even though the thought no longer sent him into a panic attack as it had the first few days, Bucky was still uncomfortable being alone. and Steve was still feeling guilty enough that he didn’t want to make the man even the least bit wary. So that morning instead of the usual glass of orange juice, he slid a glass of milk across the island at breakfast.

Bucky stands from his stool with such haste that it tumbles backward onto the floor.

“Bucky?” Steve began, moving towards the man. He reaches out his hand as he asks, “Bucky, what’s wrong.”

“No!” Bucky exclaimed, before Steve can make it completely around the island. “No!” This time he punctuates the exclamation with a swipe across the counter that sends the glass flying into the wall; it shatters and the liquid leaves milky white streaks on the red paint. His eyes shift upward and he catches a glimpse of the jug on the counter.

“No no no no…” He’s saying, shaking his head and backing up slowly. Somehow he looses his footing and falls backward, catching himself with his prosthetic arm. The room gets darker and Bucky can’t be sure if its really happening or if he’s imagining it. Shaking his head doesn’t clear it, but he does so anyway even as he feels like he’s operating outside of himself. When he looks around he’s in a dimly lit room strapped to a chair instead of Steve’s kitchen. The restraints strain as he pulls against them, but they don’t break.

_“You just won’t listen.” A man says. His head hurts so badly that the margins of Bucky’s sight go white. On top of that, he's confused; he squeezes his eyes shut tightly. When he opens them the man is closer, but Bucky can’t see his face because the lighting is too low. His voice drips with ire and impatience._

_“I’ve been told I’m stubborn.” Bucky spits, pulling against the restraints again. The man chuckles._

_“Stubborn.” He repeats. “What a shame.”_

 

Steve watches Bucky writhe on the floor

“Hey…Bucky. Bucky its ok, come back.” He tries. But if Bucky can hear him, he doesn’t show it.

 

_Bucky can’t hear him. All he can hear is the commands of the faceless man in the dark._

_“Drink it!” The man demands. Bucky groans as the jug is forced to his lips. He keeps them pressed tightly as he has the first two times, until the man yanks his head back by his hair. Before he can think about it he parts his lips to scream out in pain and the man is pouring the liquid down his throat faster than he can swallow. He’s choking, but the man doesn’t stop. The milk is sour and it runs down his cheeks and chin and neck. He thinks he’s going to throw up._

_“Put him down.” The man in charge says, and Bucky realizes the voice isn’t the one actually doing this to him. He tries to look, to make out how many other bodies are actually in the room, but he’s so nauseated that his head spins and when his head is suddenly held down towards the ground, he vomits. When he stops, he’s snatched back again, and the jug is to his lips again, and the sour milk is choking him again._

 

Bucky is going to puke; Steve can see it in his face. He grabs the trashcan and rushes over, pulling the man up by his arm and over the plastic bin; Bucky nearly falls into it as he vomits. His anguished moans fill the room each time he has a chance to catch a breath and he heaves until he’s rid himself of everything he’s eaten the past three days—and then he continues to heave. Even when bile in his stomach is exhausted, he retches painfully. Bracing himself on one knee with his left hand on the floor, his right grips the side of the trashcan so tightly that the plastic warps. His knuckles are snow white; amazingly, his face is whiter. Sweat beads on his forehead and his hair falls into his face.

Steve doesn’t know what to do. He considers touching him, but he’s afraid that may make it worse. He contemplates soothing words, but he doubts _its ok_ will be of any comfort while Bucky’s puking his guts out. So he just watches, until Bucky finally falls all the way to his knees. Steve feels sick to _his_ stomach.

“Bucky?” Bucky doesn’t respond. “Hey, Bucky its me…Steve”

Steve stepping around the island catches Bucky’s attention.

“No!” He shouts and hauls himself off the floor and towards the front door. Steve winces and turns away, waiting for the door to slam as Bucky leaves, but it doesn’t. When Steve looks, he finds Bucky huddled on the floor in front of the door, his knees hugged to his chest as he shakes.

He stays there the rest of the night. 

_____ 

The second time it happens marks a week since Bucky’s arrival. 

It started that morning, when Bucky had—very meekly—asked Steve to show him again how to use the shower. Steve’s bathroom is simple and wider than it is long. There’s the sink and vanity on the left wall, a toilet in the back left corner, and the open shower takes up the space on the other side. There’s no window. Steve doesn’t pay enough attention to know, but Bucky is aware that from the right spot in the shower one can see the entire bathroom in the mirror and the entire hall through the crack in the door. Except once Steve fixes the shower, he leaves. and when he leaves, he pulls the door shut behind him.

Bucky’s got his back turned when he hears the click of the latch catching, but at the sound he whirls around to stare at the closed door. As the room fills with steam he moves slowly and unconsciously backwards until he hits the wall. The contact makes him lurch forward, whirling around again. Suddenly the room seems a lot smaller than it is. He moves to the left looking back and forth between the closed door and the back wall, which seem to be creeping towards each other and threatening to crush him. His left hand grips the ceramic of the vanity with enough force crack it. He tightens his fist and the chunk in his hand goes to powder. He chances a look in the mirror, but he cant focus, he’s seeing double. And then the wall behind the mirror is coming towards him too. Maybe he screams, but he can’t be sure because he can’t hear anything. Can barely see anything, only the walls closing in on him. Can barely feel anything, but the steam that’s now choking him. He’s pulling his hair, but he only knows because he can make the image out faintly in the mirror that’s creeping towards him. He doesn’t want to see, he closes his eyes, and when he opens them he’s _there._

_The room is ten by ten feet and the walls are cement. There’s a thin mattress on the floor in one corner and a toilet in the corner across from it. The toilet, the cot, and Bucky are the only things in the room. Its quiet…so quiet and he can hear his breath, his heartbeat, the last remnants of food digesting in his stomach. Its been days and wishes for any other sound. The wisp of wind against the tree leaves, the huff of breath that isn’t his own, the patter of rain. He’s so desperate that he thinks he imagines the click of the door opening. But he couldn’t have because the man is standing before him. His lips twist into a crooked smile and he speaks to Bucky in Russian. Bucky doesn’t know Russian, but he understands. The Soldier understands._

_“You still disobey, 'James Barnes'?” He says._

_“Fuck you.” Bucky responds in English. The Soldier knows enough to be terrified but Bucky swallows hard. In his head he tells the soldier fuck you, too._

_For a while the man just looks at Bucky, who stands defiantly a few feet away. Bucky, who would be the Winter Soldier if he wasn’t so damn stubborn. And stubborn he is, because for as long as the man stares at him, he stares back._

_The man chuckles. His smile now isn’t just crooked, its dark, sinister, and wicked. In English he says, “We’ll see if you still feel so strongly…a little later.” Before turning on his heels and exiting. To someone behind the door he says “Close it.” Whoever it is quickly obeys._

_Bucky doesn’t know the click of the heavy door will soon become one of the most terrifying sounds he knows._

_Its been weeks, and his bodily functions aren’t the only things he can hear anymore. He hears the voices in his head crashing into each other. The angel and the devil on his shoulders argue about every wrong he’s ever committed. His past self creeps up and tells him stories he feels, but doesn’t remember. The Winter Soldier tries to destroy them all. Destroy the conscience. Destroy Bucky. Silence everything. Yet, silence wont come._

_Maybe its been months, and Bucky can barely move from the cot now. He huddles in the corner, holding his knees to his chest. Trembling. The walls close in around him, they press, squeeze, crush him until he’s suffocating. He can’t breathe, but death won’t come._

_The devil tells him this is what hell feels like. The angel isn’t there anymore._

_When the door finally opens the man steps in and if Bucky was still around he would have grimaced at the man’s nefarious grin. But Bucky is gone. He’s disappeared to the fringes of his own awareness. When the man asks if he’s ready to obey now, it’s the soldier who replies, simply_

_“Da.”_

When the bathroom door opens, Bucky’s head shoots up in that direction. “Da!” He yells

And then he’s off the floor—which he hadn’t realized he’d fallen to—and backed into the far wall. He’s yelling something in Russian over and over again. The only words Steve can make out are _yes_ and _obey_.

_____ 

Steve’s assessed it this way:

When Bucky has a panic attack, he’s _confused_ and afraid. Something shakes him loose, and he flails in search for a counteragent to ground him. He trembles and stares into Steve’s eyes questioningly, silently searching for answers to questions Steve cant answer—What’s happening? Why? What’s wrong with me?  Steve had learned from Google—which was perhaps the handiest thing the 21 st century had to offer—that with patience, touch, and gentle reminders the attack would subside. The advice has proven true, so far Bucky’s worse attacks ebb after no more than 30 minutes of _It’s ok_ ’s and _It’s Steve, you’re safe_ ’s.

However, when Bucky has an ‘ _episode’_ , he’s tormented and completely _lost_ between the present and the past. Something triggers a specific memory and suddenly he’s _reliving_ the entire experience. His body reacts like he’s actually in another time or place; he gets suddenly nauseous or sick, he responds to things or people who aren’t there, he shakes like he’s being beaten or tortured. He retreats deep within himself. He’s quiet for hours.

Also, he doesn’t even want to so much as _see_ Steve.

Which is why, right now, Steve is outside on the balcony. Well, Steve tells himself that’s why he’s outside. The truth is that Steve had been able to endure most of Bucky’s episodes, monitoring from afar even though there wasn’t much he could do to help. However, this time was different. Bucky had accidentally shocked himself plugging a lamp into the wall. Of course the small shock hadn’t hurt him, but it was apparently enough to remind him of something that did.

Bucky felt the prick, the tingle it left lingering in his index finger but he knows it shouldn’t be causing the burning he feels in every nerve from the tips of his finger to the bottom of his spine. He winces instinctively at the sensation but tries to root himself in reality. _Focus_ he tells himself; his hand tightens around the plug he’s holding. _This_ _can’t_ _keep_ _happening_. But it is happening, the shock that makes his body go rigid and his heart feel likes its stopped beating. He has to stop it. He pushes himself from the floor and stumbles back a few steps. He needs to stay up on his feet, he needs to find something to bring him back to the present, but the shock is there again and its worse this time. He can’t control himself, he’s on his knees and panting as he tries to recover. And he must have bitten his lip on the way down because his mouth taste like iron and blood...except he doesn’t think he’s bleeding... he thinks…

_The slap across his face comes hard but he doesn’t show it. He swallows the bloody taste in his mouth._

_“What is your name?!” The tyrant yells. And that’s all they’re good at…yelling._

_“James Buchanan Barnes. What are you deaf?” The man slaps him again._

_“Shock him.” He braces himself best as he can for the impending pain but he’s still not prepared when it hits him. Its sharp and scalding and paralyzing all at the same time and he knows his screams are bloodcurdling even if he can’t hear them. When it finally stops he can barely breathe and the pain lingers like smoke after a fire. The man grabs him by the chin and twists his face up._

_“What is your name, soldier?!”_

_“I just told you.” Bucky replies, managing a wry grin even as sweat and blood drip down his face. “James Buchanan-ah!” The shock starts again before he can finish and it’s a thousand time worse when he’s not expecting it. However, somehow he manages, in between his mangled cries of torture, and strangled and barely intelligible “Barnes!_ ”

Bucky’s excruciating screams had been too much for Steve to handle. He stepped outside, lest he spiral into some sort of breakdown of his own.

The screaming dies down after a few minutes, though. Steve figures that Bucky is quivering in a corner, deep in thought and folded in on himself. He figures Bucky’s staring with lost eyes at nothing in particular, and that the man will be doing whatever it is he does in his head after these things happen for the next few hours. That’s how it always goes.

So when he turns to head back inside and sees Bucky standing there in the door he’s a little caught off guard. Bucky’s hair is damp with sweat and disheveled from where he was probably pulling it. The flush on his cheeks is crimson and he breathes heavy.

“I’ll go.” He says quickly. Steve isn’t sure if Bucky’s actually talking to him, or if he’s still inside one of his flashbacks.

“Its ok, Buck.” Steve offers. “Its me, St-”

“I know!” He barks impatiently. “I know. You’re Steve and I’m in D.C and its two thousand and goddamn fourteen and _its okay_ but its…its not..I’m not..I—”

“Bucky, —”

“I’ll go. I’ll--”

“Go _where_?”

“To New York. You said your friends, you said they could help me there.” He pauses. “I’ll go. I-I want to go… I want help.”

Steve looks at Bucky for a long time, and after sending up a silent ‘thank you’ to whoever is running things up there, he nods. “Okay.”   


	4. There is Another Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is all types of messed up, but help is on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more dribbling about Bucky's instability. H/C and feels follow, you've been warned. 
> 
> chapter title from Emily Dickinson "There is Another Sky"   
> There is another sky,  
> Ever serene and fair,  
> And there is another sunshine,  
> Though it be darkness there;  
> Never mind faded forests, Austin,  
> Never mind silent fields -   
> Here is a little forest,  
> Whose leaf is ever green;  
> Here is a brighter garden,  
> Where not a frost has been;  
> In its unfading flowers   
> I hear the bright bee hum:  
> Prithee, my brother,  
> Into my garden come!

They spent the rest of the next few days in silence—Bucky withdrawn in his thoughts and Steve busying himself around the house. Steve had phoned Tony, and the man declared that they would come down at the end of the week and pick them up and that he would get something arrange something with the mental health specialists he knew of. _The best of the best, Buddy._ Tony'd promised. 

It was the day before Tony, Same, and Natasha were supposed to arrive and Bucky had fallen asleep on the couch watching Dumbo _._  Steve had been introducing him to movies and television, and since they'd never gotten much used to it before the war, he was starting with films from the forties. Except most of them were about the war, and even though Steve wasn't sure of  _all_  of Bucky's triggers, he knew that was one. He'd been surprised when he suggested the animated film and Bucky'd shrugged and said  _ok._ He was even more surprised when he got out of the shower one day and saw Bucky watching it again. It had apparently become on of his favorites. 

Steve turns in not long after Bucky conks out. He lay in bed for a while, thinking about what he expected from Bucky. He figured the man would be… angrier, at him and in general. He admits to himself that of all the possible scenarios—Bucky doesn’t remember anything besides Hydra and his life as the Winter Soldier, Bucky doesn’t remember anything _including_ Hydra and his life as the Winter Soldier, Bucky remembers Steve and is angry with him, Bucky remembers Steve and isn’t angry at all, Bucky is hostile and psychotic, Bucky is silent and docile—this scenario, in which Bucky is… _afraid…_ hadn’t been one he’d considered. Afraid. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he could deal with a lot of things but fear was never his strong suit. He’d rarely been afraid. _Bucky_ had rarely been afraid. Fear hadn't been a characteristic of any of the Commandos, or even of the villains he'd fought then and now. 

A lot of things he’d grown skilled at dealing with, but fear was not in his repertoire. 

He tossed in his bed. Left side. Right side. Back. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like he’d stumbled upon the most delicate scenario of them all. Hostile Bucky could be contained, angry Bucky could be reasoned with, but fear was the most irrational of emotions. There was no way to tell what would cause the fear, it could be a word, it could be a sound, it could be the time of day for Christ’s sake. And even worse, what would be the result of such. Bucky’s episodes were never the same twice: it could be days of silence, it could be defensive rage, anything. Fear, of all things, was unpredictable in the worst of ways.

But Bucky was getting help. Tomorrow they would be heading back to the tower and Bucky would be seeing an actual psychological trauma specialist that afternoon. So why did Steve still feel so uneasy? Why did he pick tonight, of all nights, to think about this?

Fear. It was quite the irrational thing.

He tossed again and finally sat up. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

Apparently, Bucky wouldn’t be either. Steve sat up and pulled himself out of his own thoughts, he could hear small noises coming from the living room. Shifting. Struggling. Labored breathing. And then a small strangled noise. It sounded like…fighting. 

He was on his feet immediately. He grabbed his shield, which was against the wall by the bedroom door, and dashed out of his room. However when he got to the living room, in less than 3 seconds total, he found there was no intruder. No attack. Only Bucky on the floor by the door, his arms wrapped around himself, writhing as though he was in pain. His eyes were closed and he was hyperventilating, small anguished sounds fell from his lips every few seconds. Steve approached hesitantly.

“Bucky?” He tries to no avail. Soon his hesitant steps bring him all of 2 feet in front of the man, completely unsure of what to do. “Buck...Bucky? Hey, come back.” No reply. He supposes Bucky is having an episode, but it looks worse than anything he’s seen before; like the man is trying to climb out of his own skin. He crouches and touches the man’s shoulder, but Bucky doesn’t react. That’s not good…Bucky always reacts, whether its with fear or just to tell Steve to _fuck off._

He pauses and thinks. The only thing that comes to mind is the first day; holding Bucky in his arms as the man shook and pleaded for help; holding his hand as his eyes went wild. Contact, he decides. Contact is good. He crawls until his back is against the door and man handles Bucky until the man is sitting between his bent knees. If Bucky is aware of anything that’s going on, he doesn’t show it. He only lets himself be maneuvered into Steve’s lap. He doesn’t stop clinging to himself, doesn’t stop hyperventilating, doesn’t stop writhing. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, right over Bucky’s own arms, and holds him as tight as he can without suffocating him. He drops his cheek to the top of the man’s head, and rocks slowly. Bucky’s hair is soft and smells like Steve’s shampoo. Steve already knows that either Bucky can’t hear him or isn’t listening, so he sings softly just to fill the air with something aside from Bucky’s pain.

_Over in killarney, many years ago_

_My mother sang a song to me in tunes so sweet and low_

_Just a simple little diddy, in her good old fashioned way_

_And I’d give the world if she could sing that song to me today….._

 

_He has three targets, and he should have been able to take them all down from the spot he’d chosen on the roof across the street. In fact, he’d chosen that spot for that exact reason—because the easiest way to take down all three would be by bullet, from the shadows. He was a sniper, and of all the skills they’d given him, this was one they hadn’t had to. He knew how to do this. And really, it should have been easy. It wasn’t even a complicated angle; all he had to do was wait for the shot and take it. But instead, he’s in the building now. He’s incapacitated four guards on his way up the stairs and he can hear the last one, trying to prepare to ambush him as he rounds the corner to head up the next flight. He doesn’t look, just puts a bullet between the guy’s eyes and continues. He wants to kill the ground agents that had been sent in the building. He wants to kill the agent who sent those guys to go into the building. They are all idiots. He’d taken down the first target but couldn’t lock a shot on the second. Yet. But instead of waiting it out, the cretin supervising the mission had ordered three of his incompetent minions to go in and “finish the job.” He hated new supervising officers. One’s who didn’t understand who the fuck he was. Didn’t understand that they were not there to interfere with the mission. Didn’t understand that their only job was to bring him in after he was done. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to terminate those ground agents, because they’d already gotten themselves killed. And that supervising agent would probably be in the bottom of some European body of water before the mission was over; Hydra did not like fuck-ups. That’s why they had him._ He _didn’t fuck up._

_Still, in his head, he is screaming. It had been easier on the ledge where people hardly looked like people at all. But now, he’s inside the building. Inside the office of his second target. and inside he’s screaming. No, Bucky is screaming._ _The Soldier is ignoring him._

_The Soldier shoots the man twice in the chest._

_Bucky screams some more._

_Its loud and shrill and demanding over and over again. He screams 'No.' and 'Stop.' and 'Don’t do this.' and when he is tired of words he just screams in loud cries of desperation. He’s been out of the fridge long enough to know what he’s doing is wrong, but not long enough to stop himself. Not long enough to stop the soldier. So he just screams and tries to claw his way out._

_The Soldier has to take down 7 more guards to get to the office of the last target, and he is surprised the man hasn’t tried to escape. He scoffs. Scoffs at the soft targets, scoffs and the easy guards, scoffs at the weak ground agents that had managed to get themselves killed in this playground. But when The Soldier draws his gun and points it at the man’s head, both the man and Bucky both scream “Please don’t!” His hand twitches and he tries to shake himself out of it, but it’s happening anyway. It always happens when he’s out too long, when Bucky is too adamant. He gets confused. He hesitates. He listens. And in 12 more hours Bucky will claw his way out enough to nearly take control. But the mission will be over by then. He’ll be back in the chair. They’ll wipe him. This is comforting to The Soldier. It’s horrifying to Bucky._

_But thats 12 hours from now. **Now h** e’s in an office building with one other living person. A person he should be killing. A person he can't kill because there is screaming in his head loud and louder and persistent and angry and shrill and demanding and_ screaming, Jesus Christ. _And then there is a man pleading and crying and babbling on the floor. And there is a gun in his left hand and he should be shooting it but he can’t. He should be shooting, Bucky shouldn't be screaming, the man should be dead he shouldn't be crying....its all so overwhelming that he can't think, he thinks his brain is going to combust..._

 _Until he hears the singing_. _Beyond the pleading man and the screaming voice in his head is...singing. Soft and gentle, his mother’s song, he remembers. He shouldn’t remember, not here, he shouldn’t. but he does. Remembers a stuffy apartment in Brooklyn. Remembers he’s five, maybe, and his chest hurts from coughing. Remembers his mother’s hair is soft and it smells like soap and lemons. Her lips are gentle and reassuring against the top of his head and her arms are warm. She sings._

_Too-ra loo-ra loo-ral_

_Too-ra Loo-ra li_

_Too-ra loo-ra loo-ral,_ _hush now don’t you cry_

_But this isn't his mothers singing, her voice isn’t like he remembers. Instead of light, airy, and high pitched, it’s deeper and a little husky. But its still familiar, still warms his skin like a blanket. The longer he listens the louder it gets. Louder than the screaming and the crying. Louder until the only thing is the voice. And he isn’t in that office anymore. He doesn’t know where he is. but there’s no man, and no gun, and no screaming in his head. Just the song._

_Too-ra loo-ra l_ _oo-ral_

_Too-ra loo-ra li_

_Too-ra loo-ra loo-ral_

_That’s an irish lullaby_

Steve notices when Bucky stops thrashing. And when he stops hyperventilating. And when he goes slack in Steve’s arms. He continues to rock a little, surrounding Bucky in his warmth, and singing softly into Bucky’s hair. Even after he calms down it’s a long time before Bucky comes back, but Steve only moves when he thinks Bucky’s limbs must be falling asleep. Even then, he just readjusts a little before wrapping his arms back around Bucky.

He stops singing after a while, but he still hums a little. Eventually he loosens his grip a bit.

“Bucky?” He can’t see Bucky’s face so he’s a little caught off guard when the man starts speaking.

“They broke me." He manages,  "They tortured me until I barely knew who I was and then they made me into who they wanted me to be…still they had to…they..wiped me. After every mission, sometimes every few days on the longer ones. The took me out and put _him_ in if I was out too long.” Bucky chuckles, but its so lifeless the hairs prickle on the back of Steve’s neck. “I fought myself. They hated it... _I_ hated it. It was like…trying to break out of my head..like…like I couldn’t make my body do what I wanted it to anymore. I was _him_ but I was _me_ too. And I…it was--” Bucky chokes at the end of his sentence and the last word dies on his lips.

“You don’t have to explain.” Steve assures. He can hear the strain in Bucky’s voice and considering the state he’d found him in, he knows the man is mentally exhausted. He can’t imagine how Bucky survived this, all of this, for fifteen months on the streets alone...the thought gives him chills.

He decides to think instead about whether he should let Bucky go now. He wonders if this is uncomfortable for him. They hadn't been so close since the first day three weeks ago, and even then he’d been sleeping, so if Steve lingered with his arms around Bucky and his head tucked into the man’s neck, well, it wasn’t hurting anyone. But now, Bucky was awake and sitting the way they were now was unquestionably…intimate. Three weeks isn't a long time, and most of that time has been spent trying to help Buck maintain some degree of stability. Steve doesn’t know if Bucky is ready to resume the physical intimacy of their friendship. The man's memories are all mixed up and he's sensitive to certain actions and he doesn’t know if Bucky might…misinterpret it. Because he isn’t coming on to Bucky. Not at all. Because they had been close friends but not lovers. Never lovers. Because men didn’t love other men as anything more than brothers. Because even if men _did_ love other men that way, Steve loved Peggy and Bucky loved a lifestyle of pretty dames and dancing…

Yes, this train of thought is only mildly better than the first.

“You okay?” Steve asks. It’s a stupid question, _clearly_ Bucky isn’t ok. But Steve doesn’t know what else to say and the silence isn’t comfortable and Steve needs some something to base his next move off of. They aren't legitimate reasons. They're selfish, and Steve curses himself for the weakness.

Bucky shrugs and instead of answering the question he mumbles “I’m sorry.”

Steve has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from scoffing out loud. He moves from behind Bucky and pretends he doesn’t hear would-be-inaudible-to-the-normal-human-ear whimper that passes through the man’s lips. He settles back down in front, where he can see Bucky’s face even though the man isn’t meeting his eyes.  “What in God’s name would you have to be sorry for?”

“I haven’t been anything but trouble for the past few weeks, I shouldn’t have…” Apparently Steve wasn’t the only person feeling reflective tonight.

“Bucky of course you should have. You need help.  And you’re going to get it.”

“There is _something_ _wrong_ with me.”

“Buc-”

“No. You…you deserve to know.”

“You told me. Three weeks ago, and it didn't matter then. It doesn't matter now. I told you it whatever it was I would help. You don’t have t-”

“I want to.” Steve rubs a hand over his face. “I mean…if they’re gonna know. Then I have to… I…I want you to know first.”  And how can Steve argue with that? He cant, he can only nod. It’s a small movement, but Steve knows that even with his head down Bucky sees it.

"When I’m awake its like everything is a threat. People walking to close, talking loud, loud noises in general, crowded spaces, people who look my way longer than they have to. Anything…everything makes me feel…on edge. And I feel the urge…the  _need_ to…handle things. But I can’t, I mean I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be a…killer. But at the same time…”

Bucky’s voice drifts off. After a few seconds he continues. “They made me into one. A weapon. A murderer. Its what I do, I eliminate threats. And everything is a threat nowadays. And… I have to fight every waking moment just to not…its…I..it doesn’t  _seem_ like a big deal.” Steve wants to stop him. Wants to tell him it’s  _definitely_ a big deal. He doesn’t.

“but I get so wrapped up in it that I’m…I’m _constantly_ scared. of the threat, of myself, and I just…if I'm caught off guard I lose it." The panic attacks. Bucky has at least one everyday. "but that... that it isn't so bad. Not now, I mean especially, its not so bad when you're around." He drifts off and when he picks back up he's moved on to something else. Steve goes with him. Listens. Lets Bucky have his night-before-we-face-our-demons catharsis. 

“In the beginning, before they started using that… _thing_ to wipe all my memories, I fought the training and the brainwashing.” He chuckles again, “I…I guess I was kinda like you. I never knew when to throw in the towel. They didn’t like that very much. They…it was awful. Sometimes..here, now something will happen and all of a sudden Im back there, being electrocuted or waterboarded or put in solitary confinement for three months.” Steve winces, “Sorry” Bucky says.

"You aren't the one who should be sorry." Steve grits between his teeth.

"I.. whenever that happens it triggers, I guess, the...episodes." Steve chuckles a bit. He hadn't told Bucky thats what he called them. 

"But thats...thats still not the worst of it." That surprises Steve. He _definitely_ considered Bucky's episodes to be one of his most serious issues. "It only happens sometimes and its..I don't like reliving it but I...I lived through it the first time, you know?  "The worst...its at night. Whenever I close my eyes it feels like Im watching through a window, I’m…I’m behind the glass watching the me on the outside…he’s killing everything. He shoots guns. He throws knives. He murders men…maybe good men…with his bare hands. Sometimes I know…I remember what Im seeing. Other times I think…I _hope_ Im making it up… But on the other side…the me on the inside of the window is screaming. Screaming like _he_ is being murdered. Cursing himself. Hating himself. He…he throws himself into the window. He punches and kicks but it wont break. All he can do is beg the other him to _please stop_. but the man outside wont stop. He only tries to silence the man inside. The man inside wont be silenced.” There’s a long silence after Bucky finishes, they’re both lost in thought. Until Steve speak up softly.

“Thats a lot going on all at once, Buck.”

“Yea.” Bucky breathes. And Because Steve doesn’t know what else to say, he breathes the word right back.

"I...I dont understand it all the time." Bucky starts again. "Its...its not exact. Its not...predictable. and I don't know why. but..." He drifts off again. "I don't think I'm going back to sleep." 

"Me either." Steve says. "You should still get some rest though. Lay on the couch, I can put the movie back on if you want." Bucky nods. Steve helps him off the floor and restarts the Dumbo DVD while Bucky settles onto the couch. 

"Im just gonna-" Steve starts, pointing towards his room. 

Bucky doesn't respond immediately and Steve thinks the man doesn't hear him, until Bucky mumble, barely audible "Stay." 

"huh?" 

"please. I-I'm not gonna sleep and you're not gonna sleep so...just stay here, with me." Bucky lifts the blanket he's slinked under, offering the space beside him to Steve.   


"We...we weren't like _that,_ Buck." Steve says softly. 

"I...I know. but...but we were like this, right?" Steve knows what Bucky is talking about. The close physical approximation he'd been thinking about earlier. He swore the man could read his mind. He sighs. 

"Actually, I think we were more like this," Steve climbs over Bucky and settles behind him, throwing an arms over the mans waist. Bucky chuckles, it isn't so lifeless. 

"Man gets a few muscles and all of a sudden he's the default big spoon." Bucky jokes.

"Damn right." Steve retorts. Bucky settles into Steve's body like it hadn't been 70 years since he'd been there last and Steve lets himself settle into Bucky, too. 

"I guess its ok" Bucky says as he begins to get lost in the movies beginning credits. He nestles down a little further into Steve's chest, "You aren't so bad at it."

______________

Toora Loora Looral can be found [here](http://youtu.be/W0jaeAit0xw?t=55s). Its really beautiful, you should check it out if you don't know it. 


	5. Touch Has A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Steve finally knows whats going on with Bucky; his panic attacks, his episodes, and his secret night terrors. Unfortunately that doesn't mean he can stop any of them from happening. 
> 
> or Tony is a walking trigger, Natasha has red in her ledger, Bucky technically only loses it once, and we finally leave DC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone who's been reading this story i'm hella sorry that i've been MIA  
> by way of explanation: i started working TWO new jobs and have been out of town pretty frequently visiting my brother on base, plus i've had some writers block. 
> 
> anyway, this chapter is sorta short and I'm sorry for that too, but its getting good soon! i swear!
> 
> title from (of course) a John Keats Poem titled   
> To- (What Can I Do To Drive Away)
> 
> What can I do to drive away  
> Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,  
> Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!  
> Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,  
> What can I do to kill it and be free  
> In my old liberty?  
> O, let me once more rest  
> My soul upon that dazzling breast!...
> 
> ...Let once again these aching arms be plac’d,  
> The tender gaolers of thy waist!  
> And let me feel that warm breath here and there  
> To spread a rapture in my very hair, —  
> O, the sweetness of the pain!  
> Give me those lips again!

As it turns out, Bucky does sleep.

Near the end of the movie Steve peers over Bucky’s shoulder, the man’s lids are closed and his lips are slightly parted; out for the count. Steve, however, doesn’t sleep. He stays awake most of the night watching over Bucky, his arm slung over the man’s midsection underneath Bucky’s own.  He hums whenever it seems like Bucky may be getting upset again and it seems to calm him down.

Bucky wakes not long after the sun starts to shine through the glass doors that lead to the balcony. He wriggles a little under the weight on his side, and when he cracks open his eyes he realizes its Steve’s arm folded around him. The thought is enough to abate his usual morning _who am I? where am I ? whats happening?_ Anxieties.

“Its ok, Buck.” He realizes Steve is saying,  his hand now moving in reassuring circles against the back of his palm. Bucky knows he should correct Steve, let him know that he’s awake, but what he really wants to do is purr and hum like a cat. Steve’s body radiates heat against his back and his soft touch is soothing. Just like last night—there’d been so much, too much, going on in his head; and then there was just Steve. Steve surrounding him in a way that made Bucky want to cling to him and never let go. But Bucky knew that Steve had been right when he said the weren’t like _that_. It was the forties, no two men were like _that,_ not openly anyway. But secretely….

Bucky shook the thought off. Either way, it was wrong to take advantage of Steve when the man so clearly wanted to help him. He’d probably do anything Bucky asked, and even though Bucky was sick he wasn’t stupid—he knew it was his responsibility to draw lines.

“m’okay.” He muttered. “Awake.”

“Oh.” Steve’s hand stopped moving against his. He fought the urge to whine. “Well Tony, Natasha, and Sam are coming, they’re going to pick us up...in Tony’s _plane._ I told him he could just send a car or something since I only have my bike but he insisted that he wanted to personally retrieve us, and he, apparently, is not a fan of ground travel.” Steve chuckled to himself, sitting up. Bucky did the same.

“He has his own plane?”

“Yea. He’s…do you remember Howard? Howard Stark?”

“Stark Expo.” Bucky says tentatively after a moment, and then more confidently, ” and...the war, too. Yea, yea I remember.”

“Tony is his son. He’s a really smart guy. Really rich too. He built the iron man suit..err..suits now I guess. He has like twenty of them.”

“He get around to fixing his old mans flying car?” Steve laughs.

“No, but you should ask him about it.” He answers. “I should warn you, though. Stark can be a little…a _lot_ over the top. He likes to press peoples buttons, but he isn’t a bad guy. I mean once you know him.” Bucky nods. “Anyway, they should be here in a few hours, why don’t you hit the shower and I’ll make breakfast?”

“Yea…sure”

\--- 

 

“Cappie, we’re here!”

Steve’s front door flew open, slamming into the wall behind it. Bucky had been sitting on the couch while Steve perched on the coffee table across from him, but as soon as the door flew open he’d spun, shoved Steve to the floor, produced a gun from under the couch cushion and stood. He was aiming the firearm directly at Tony. “Hold there…” Tony started, holding his hands out in from of him. Steve clambered quickly to his feet despite the orders Bucky was barking at him in Russian, undoubtedly a command to stay down. Steve quickly ran through the facts, trying to devise for everyone to come out of this situation unscathed.

This wasn't panicked Bucky, tortured Bucky, or conflicted Bucky; this was The Winter Soldier. His posture was rigid, his face was blank, he was speaking Russian, and he had a gun pointed at Tony Stark’s head-- definitely The Winter Soldier. The only way to deal with _him_ was immobilization.

...But Bucky was also protecting Steve, he’d thrown him to the ground and stood directly in front of him, blocking any potential attack with his body. He also hadn’t _shot_ the gun. Bucky was there, Steve decided. Perhaps he was stuck between his warring personalities, but he was there and Steve could work with that.

 “Tony get out!” He barked, moving into Bucky’s line of vision.

 “ _Steve._ ” It was Black Widow speaking this time, warning in her voice as she eyed Bucky warily. 

"I've got this Natasha." He said turning towards her. She studied his face for a moment before nodding.Tony backed out of the doorway, and Natasha followed, pulling the door closed behind her. Once Stark was no longer an immediate threat Bucky lowered the gun, but he didn’t release it. As Steve had observed previously, everything about him screamed that he was in mission mode. But now that he was standing in front of him, Steve realized his eyes weren’t the same cold, lifeless, murderous pools he had seen on the bridge and the helicarrier. They were the shifty and confused, panicked and afraid. Steve remembered Bucky's words from last night _  
_

_...the me on the outside...he’s killing everything...and the me on the inside is screaming._

When Steve takes another looks into Bucky's eyes he can see it. He can see Bucky fighting with himself, willing his body to cooperate with his mind, begging Steve to stop him or to help him. 

“Bucky,” Steve says. He isn't just talking to Bucky as he stands and breathes in front of him, he's calling to the screaming man inside of him. “Bucky, look at me.” After a few moments Bucky's eyes shift towards and lock with Steve’s. The intensity of the gaze is nearly overwhelming. He knows it isn't possible, but Steve thinks he can physically feel Bucky clinging to him for dear life, though there's no physical contact between them.

“I need to immobilize the threat—” Bucky--or the Soldier, rather--states.  

“There is no threat.” Steve replies simply. 

 “No I need to—I have to,” The Soldier clenches his fists and moves easily around Steve towards the door, but Steve beat him there. He pressing his own back against the door and holds his hands out, palms facing Bucky’s chest.

“Hey, there is no threat.” He repeats, firm but not intimidating. “There is no threat."

He's visibly irritated, but he stops his trek towards the door. Getting past Steve would require a fight, and apparently Bucky had a strong enough hold on himself to prevent the soldier from hurting Steve.

"Do you know who I am, Bucky? Can you tell me who I am?” Bucky's eyes lock with Steve's again; his glare is desperate. "C'mon Buck," Steve says and offers a smile. It isn't a Captain America smile, or even a Steve Rogers smile. Its  the smile he gave Bucky on the Brooklyn streets when he was trying to convince the man to do something--or quite often to  _not_ do something--for him; small, playful, honest.  


“Stevie,” Bucky manages after a long moment. 

“That’s right. Its Stevie. and who are you?”

His hand clenches the gun tightly and Steve can track Bucky's inner struggle in the tension of his shoulders, the thin line his lips are pressed into, his defiant and defensive stance.

Bucky is The Winter Soldier's worst enemy. He's the pesky voice that arrives in his head and prevents him from doing his job. He's the moral center that causes him to feel guilt. In order for The Winter Soldier to thrive, he must be only The Soldier--he can't be Bucky.

But Bucky knows this. and it only intensifies his silent cries of _Im James Buchanan Barnes_ _! Im Bucky!_

Steve approaches Bucky tentatively, maintaining eye contact. "Hey" He says softly as he places a firm hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Who are you?"

The very fibers of Bucky's being surge towards Steve's touch. He chases it like he chased the lulling croon of Steve's voice the previous night and its enough to crack the waning glass that traps him inside of himself and drag him out.

"Bucky-" He croaks. "I'm James Buchanan Barnes. I'm--I'm Bucky. I'm Bucky I-"

Steve reaches down and grabs the gun from Bucky’s now slack metal hand. Tucking it quickly in the back of his pants. He only hesitates a moment before using the hand thats not on Bucky's shoulder to gently cup the man's cheek. “Thats right. Its me, Stevie and you, Bucky. Its ok. You're ok. ” 

Bucky nods, but his hands are shaking and his breathing is shallow. He's _back,_ but that is apparently only half the battle. The tell tale signs of an impending panic attack are evident. Fortunately, Steve is more skilled in this area.

“I’m right here. Its ok. We're ok." He says, "You aren't going to hurt anyone and no one is going to hurt you. I promise."

Bucky's fists clench as he nods. Steve continues, “I need you to breathe with me, ok?” 

He takes a few breaths, his eyes trained on Bucky. He doesn't push, just demonstrates until the slight rise and fall of Bucky's chest assured that he was following.

Then there's a slight rap on the door followed by Stark beginning something to the effect of _Alive in there Steve?_   which was cut off by a yelp and a _damn, Natasha_. Bucky’s eyes darted past Steve’s head towards the door. “Hey, look at me,” Steve moved to catch his eyes again, stroking his thumb across Bucky’s cheek. On another day, in another context, he would have noted the way Bucky leaned ever so slightly into his palm and nuzzled inconspicuously. But not now, not here.

Instead he gives Bucky's shoulder a squeeze. “Its just me and you, Buck. Just Steve and Bucky. No one comes in until you’re ready.” Bucky nods. After a few minutes Bucky looks like himself again.

“I’m ready.” He breathes, and then gives another nod, mostly to convince himself, before repeating. “I’m ready.”

Steve nods as well, letting his hand idly run down Bucky’s arms and unconsciously grabbing his hands for a squeeze. He was surprised when Bucky squeezed back, a little desperation seeping through in the contact.

He held Bucky’s hand that way, searching the man's face for...what, he didn't know.

“Ok.” He says finally, and lets Bucky’s hand fall as he heads for the door.

 

“Cap!” Tony says when he’s finally inside, gathering Steve into a hug. Steve rolls his eyes and pats Tony’s shoulder, pulls Sam into a bro-hug, and nods at Natasha; she'll trap him in the gym for a thorough sparring session at some point as a proper 'welcome back'

“Bucky this is Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff.” Steve says.

“Guys this is Bucky.”

“Just so we’re clear, you aren’t going to shoot me, are you?” Tony questions. Bucky doesn’t know whether to feel angry or ashamed so he just shrugs.

“As long as you don’t give me a reason to.” He replies monotonously and without inflection. He catches the smirk in the woman’s eyes, and finds that she is familiar to him. But before he can really dwell on it, Sam is speaking.

"There's _always_ a reason with Tony." He laughs. Bucky turns to Steve questioningly. 

"He doesn't mean that." Steve offers. "Well...not literally." 

"The defamation!" Tony exclaims. "Why am I  _always_  on someone's hit list? Really Im not that bad of a guy." 

Bucky finds himself smirking as Tony and Sam venture into a joking argument. His eyes find the woman's again. The sight of her makes his heart speed up, with adrenaline, not attraction. He knows her...he knows her...

 _“Romanova.”_ He breathes. “What are you doing here'?"

“I could ask you the same thing.” She responds without hesitation. 

His fist clenches a bit. “are you a spy...”

She scoffs. “Fool. Don't be a dense.”

“What then?”

Natasha chuckles “A traitor, to some.”

"and to others?"

"an asset." She shrugs. She glances at Steve, Tony, and Sam quickly enough that only Bucky notices. "a friend." 

"Ok kids, enough with the secret conversation." Tony says. Its only then that Bucky even realizes he's been speaking--and Natasha has been responding--in Russian. 

"Sorry." Bucky murmurs.  

"I forgot you guys were...acquainted." Steve says. 

"Acquainted?" Sam asks. 

"Yea..." Bucky replies distantly,  "I trained Natalia... in the Red Room." The words have barely left his lips when the sudden feeling of overstimulation, as Steve calls it, washes over him. Already on edge from the incident with Tony, the flood of memories from the Russian training facility make his lung constrict uncomfortably. He wills himself to stave off the feeling, but the frustration at not being able to only makes it worse. 

"Well shit." Tony says. Natasha shrugs. 

"Stories for another day." She says, eyeing Bucky with a hint of worry, "Are we ready?" 

"Yea." Steve answers. He looks down from where he's standing beside Bucky and frowns 

"Ok, we'll meet you guys downstairs." Steve throws her a grateful nod. 

Tony opens his mouth to speak but Natasha grabs his arm and tows him away. Sam follows with feigned obliviousness.

"With me, Buck?" Steve asks, when the three have gone. When Bucky doesn't respond, he grabs the man's hand and squeezes. That catches Bucky's attention, pulling him up before he goes off the deep end...again.  _  
_

"Yea." He says and squeezes back. Steve's touch reminds him that he's in the present, grounds him in his current reality, lets him see his memories for what they are, just memories.  "Im with you."

"Good." Steve says with a clap on his shoulder. "lets go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so....yea....next stop: avengers tower! Which means therapy. Which means less angst and more...not-angst.


	6. The Etheral Balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Bucky have a history, Avengers Tower is impressive, and Clint has a bestfriendcrush. 
> 
> oh and a little steve and bucky brotp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so I've decided the only way I'll actually get moving with this story is to post shorter chapters more frequently as opposed to longer chapters barely ever. so here we go. 
> 
> also, safe bet is that all chapter titles will be from Keats poems from here on out. This one is from "To Hope"

_Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,_   
_From cruel parents, or relentless fair;_   
_O let me think it is not quite in vain_   
_To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!_   
_Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,_   
_And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!_

_And as, in sparkling majesty, a star_   
_Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;_   
_Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:_   
_So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,_   
_Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,_   
_Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head._

 

Bucky is quiet for most of the flight. He finds himself engrossed in his memories of the Red Room; memories of the red headed girl who thought herself a ballerina; of her soft gracefulness evolving into violent precision, her innocent youth into hardened maturity. He remembers watching as they did to her the same thing they did to him--take out anything gentle and everything moral and replace it with anger and murderous intention. He remembers helping them do it.

Its strange to remember, as despite all the memories he’d recovered over the months, these were the ones that had conveniently stayed buried. The worst part of all was that he wanted to _not_ know why. He wanted to be completely oblivious to the reason he’d forgotten the Widow and the Red Room. He wanted to force himself to search idly for a reason or a rationalization only to come up empty handed. But he couldn’t.

After they’d captured him and finally converted him, they’d isolated him. Hydra kept him in cyro when he wasn’t on a mission and when he was on a mission he worked alone. He was the The Winter _Soldier._ Singular. A solo act. A lone ranger. In every sense of the word. When people were in the way, things got fucked up. Hydra did _not_ like fuck ups.

The only people he ever came into any prolonged contact with were his handlers and the doctors and even they were but faces that changed over the years. Not that it mattered much; these people weren’t friends to him, they weren’t even kind to him, they simply did their jobs in his presence. It could barely be called human contact. Thus, he hadn’t truly known human contact until the Widow...

_She was so small when they brought her in. Young of course, b_ _ut more than that. While was souped up on serum, all muscle and height and visible strength, she was almost...frail...to his eyes. Soft arms and legs with no definition, thin midsection, delicate hands, round face. Why had they brought her here?_

_“Do you want me to kill her?” He asked, finding that to be the only logical explanation. He was a killer, and when he wasn’t a killer he was an ice cube, thus they_ must  _have wanted him to kill her..._

_"No. Teach her.”_

_He looked up at the man with partly questioning (The Soldier) and mostly angry (Bucky) eyes. Despite the fact that he’d only been out of cyro for 4 hours, Bucky’s voice of reason was loud and desperate in his head_ I won’t do it! _He yelled over the Soldiers attempts to silence him._  I may be your monster but I won’t make monsters for you! _His words were directed at the man, but the man would never hear him. He was trapped firmly inside of his own head, audible only to the soldier…to himself._

Don’t do it. Please, don’t do this.

 _He begged, willed himself to do_  something,  _but_ _it didn’t matter. The momentary bout of weakness caused by The Soldier 's initial shock and Bucky's sudden outrage subsided and he buried Bucky’s voice back in the recesses of his awareness. Then he reached out with flesh hand to strike her—right in the face with a closed fist. She’d cried out in pain—it had been a hard and unexpected blow. Somewhere deep inside him Bucky had cringed._

_The next day he greeted her with the same unexpected blow to the face, though this time she did not cry._

_By the third day she’d come to expect the hit._

_By the fourth she’d learned to avoid it._

_*_

_They’d slept together, eventually.  When she was of age and he’d been out of the freezer long enough to remember what want felt like. Though he'd taken to teaching her through the often painful method of trial and error, she'd grown fond of him. He was, in his own convoluted way, fond of her, too. Perhaps it was that she was the only one he spoke to about non-mission related matters. Because she was beautiful but more than that she was resilient. She recovered from an unexpected blow with the quickness of a strung bow; snapping back to the position he'd pulled her into without complaint or hesitation. They'd wiped him often and he rarely remembered specifics of their conversations, but her presence and her character had drawn him to her; led him right into the scratchy sheets of her bed like a moth to a flame._

_But one night she’d looked at him, eyes shining with the weak glimmer of residual hope--hope that there was something good in this whirlpool of bad, hope that Bucky had long since lost--and asked if he believed in love. The Soldier had expected Bucky to come creeping up with his nagging, sappy voice, screaming yes at the top of his lungs; but, he hadn't. They wouldn't stop. They wouldn't stop what they were doing to her just like they wouldn't stop what they'd done to him. Not until they got what they wanted. Images of hope flood Bucky's mind followed swiftly by images of that hope being tortured out of him._

_He’d gotten from the bed and dressed mechanically._

_“Love is for children.”_

_After that, he’d began to train her in earnest._

_Not just until she was deadly and ruthless, but until she was cold, hardened, and hopeless just like he was._

Bucky continues sitting quietly. One reason he had forced himself to forget Romanova was because he so much guilt for his _own_ agonies and transgressions; he could hardly bare feeling guilty for hers too. But he knew his hands weren't dyed with just the blood of his victims. He'd taught her to kill and she had; those slain at her hand were partially slain at his, too. Even worse, its more than just _their_  blood...her blood is on his hands, too. He thinks of all the times he felt he’d rather die than continue in the agony he’s lived in for the past 15 months. How many times he told himself surely death offers sanctuary from the harrowing flashbacks of pleading men—women and children, too. The regret of having caused those same feelings for someone else picks at his skin like a flesh-eating virus. 

But thats not what he feels the worst about. He'd taught her not to feel, and she hadn't. He was the only light feeding the withering hope she had, but he'd trapped her in darkness, refusing to shine. No matter how many times they wiped him, he'd never forgotten that.  

He’s aware of the turbulence that comes with the plane landing, but Bucky isn’t really drawn out of his thoughts until he feels Steve’s hand on his shoulder. He relishes in it for a moment, suddenly happy about his decision to ask Steve to stay with him last night. It was like breaking some barrier; they’ve had more physical contact since then since than they’d had Bucky’s entire stay in D.C. Alas, it doesn't quell his brewing guilt.

“We’re here.”

 ___

The tower is an interesting place. After a short car ride they arrive and enter through the first floor revolving doors. It is well lit and everything is bright and white, giving a crisp and clean impression. There’s a blonde at the front desk. Her hair is tied back into a neat pony tail and her nails click against the plastic as she hits the letter of the keyboard.

“Good Afternoon Mr. Stark.” She greets, looking up with a smile. Tony nods in her direction and they all head for the elevator. Steve explains to Bucky that the first five floors are reserved for Stark Industries business; while there is an official Stark Industries office a few blocks down the road, built after this building had been transformed into the Avengers headquarters post-battle-of-New-York, Tony felt better having the important things in-house. 'Things' being mostly Pepper, after the incident in Malibu, and five floors being what was necessary for her compromise.

The sixth floor is Tony’s workshop and the seventh is ‘Tony’s’ lab. Steve puts ‘Tony's’ in air quotes when he explains it to Buck because _everyone knows Tony had the lab installed just for Bruce but he lies because Bruce is far too humble to have accepted it_. The eighth floor is the common floor, and where they make their first stop.

The elevator opens into a living area. There’s a wide—very wide—screen TV mounted on the wall with tall shelves on either side of it that house hundreds of DVD’s. A black couch splits the room in half and behind it, on the right side, there is a wall of ceiling to floor windows. A bar separates the living area from the kitchen and it runs from the wall with the TV to about the middle of the room. Behind it, the kitchen is huge and open. The appliances are modern and there is an island in the middle with three tall chairs on one side. To the right of the island closer to the continued wall of windows is a large dining room table. Bucky notices a hallway, but doesn’t get the chance to venture down it because he’s taken aback by the large blonde man at the kitchen sink.

“Comrades!” Thor booms with a wide smile and outstretched arms.

“I thought you’d gone back to Asgard?” Steve asks.

“Aye, I had. But my father has entrusted me with the safety of the people of earth, so I shall be dwelling here with my fair Jane until my presence is no longer required.” Steve nods.

“Well, we’ll be glad to have you.”

Thor smiles. “This is your friend, I take it?” He asks.

“Yea. Thor this is Bucky. Bucky, Thor.”

“To finally meet the one so admired by our Captain.” Thor booms. “It brings me great pleasure, friend. Even more so that your presence means our Captain is no longer so heart broken and downtrodden.” Steve feels the tips of his ears burning crimson.

Tony snickers, but distracts Thor with a question. Steve is thankful for the distraction. “Thor, buddy, where’s everyone else?” 

“I believe Dr. Banner and the Hawk are studying the physics of ‘pool.’” Thor says. His eyebrows wrinkle at the word, as though he is simply repeating it thought he doesn’t really understand or having much use for it. Tony snickers again and heads off down the hallway. Natasha follows but Sam stays, saying something about 'Asgardian food?'  and taking a share of whatever Thor is eating at the island.

There are three doors in the short hallway. Bucky suspects two of them are bathrooms and one is a closet. The hallway opens into an open space with another ridiculously large TV. This one is mounted above a table, on top of which sits two gaming consoles. The shelves underneath are stacked with video games. There’s another bar on the back wall and a pool table near yet another wall of windows. At the table stands a frumpy looking curly haired man and a younger man with blonde hair.

Bruce is chattering a mile a minute to Clint about angles and force and friction and how pool is really only a game of science. Clint looks like he’s trying, but failing, to keep up.

“Don’t bother Legolas, you still won’t beat Nat. She’s magic.” Tony says as he saunters over to the bar. Natasha smirks but Clint frowns.

“Who says I’m trying to beat Nat? Maybe I just wanted to learn something new.”

“Right, when was the last time you ventured to learn something new without a motive?”

“Fuck you, Stark.”

“Not a chance birdbrains.”

“ _дети_ , for God’s sake.” Natasha sighs. Clint turns to look at her, and the rest of them, for the first time. Bucky doesn’t miss the brief conversation Clint and Natasha have with their eyes. He wants to wonder about it, but before he can Clint is extending his hand.

“Clint Barton.”

“James Barnes.” Bucky responds, matching Clint’s formality.

"Also known as Hawkeye." Clint adds with a smile. Bucky can't help smiling back.

“Also known as Bucky.”

“Yea, I’ve heard about you.” Clint starts, “Sniper, right?”

“Yea,” Bucky's smile falters. “’That all you heard?”

Clint shrugs, “All that matters. You’re probably the only person in the world that’s a better shot than me.”

“You’re a sniper?”

“Technically an archer.”

“Like…bows and arrows?”

“Bow and arrows.” Clint nods, “Come down to the training room sometime I’ll show you. Besides if you’re good as they say you are I need to see you in action.”

“Not as good as they say I am,” Bucky shrugs with a slight but smug smile, “better.”

Clint laughs, “Steve, I like this guy.”

Steve smiles. "Yea, me too." He chuckles, bumping Bucky's shoulder with his own. Natasha’s phone goes off.

“Looks like you’ll have to swoon another day, Barton. Fury needs to see us about last week's op.”

“I wasn’t _swooning,_ ”

“Please, Barton, I could see your mancrush from a mile away.” Tony scoffs.

“ I don’t have a _mancrush!_ ”

“Whatever” Both Natasha and Tony say at the same time.

Bucky smiles. He’d thought the entire process—coming to New York, meeting Steve’s friends and comrades who were all potential threats—would be entirely too overwhelming to cope with. In fact he’d expected he would have lost his shit by now, chickened out, folded into himself in a corner and begged Steve to take him back to D.C. But surprisingly he felt…ok. It hadn't been long, and the feelings awakened by Natasha and the sudden memories of the Red Room still simmered deep in his belly, but he felt relatively at ease. Compared to last night…to even earlier today…he was feeling almost good. 

“Bucky, this is Dr. Banner.” Steve says once Natasha drags a grumbling Clint out to the main elevators.

“Please, call me Bruce.” Bruce shakes Bucky’s hand with a reserved smile.  

“Its nice to meet you Dr.—uh…Bruce.”

“Likewise.” Bruce nods. “uh, I tell Steve this all the time but if you ever need breathing exercises or…things like that, well, its sort of my thing so,” Bruce shrugs. “Just ask.”

“oh…uh, thanks.”

“Speaking of 'things', the trauma specialist I told you about will be here in an hour and a half. Pep’s setting him up on the second floor.”

“Thanks,” Steve says to Tony. He turns to Bucky, “Do you want to head up, take a break before the appointment?”

“Sure.”

 ___

Steve’s suite is on the 12th floor. The elevator opens to a short hallway with doors on each end.

“That’s Sam’s place.” Steve offers by way of explanation. Steve’s place is beyond the door to the right.

Bucky is surprised to find it’s the same size…if not bigger…than Steve’s apartment in D.C. The door opens to the living room, a simple couch, arm chair, coffee table, and television. There’s an easel set up against the back wall by the window and a book shelf in the corner. The living room opens to the kitchen, to the right of which is a hallway.

“This is my room, that’s the bathroom, that the closet with linens and towels,” Steve says pointing to doors as he leads Bucky down the hallway. “thats just a room with my art junk, and this is the guest room, or your room now.”

Bucky takes in the room. There’s more natural light than the room in D.C; windows seem to be Stark’s thing, judging by their overwhelming presence everywhere in the tower. Bucky likes it. But this room is a lot more impersonal. At Steve’s place there were remnants of Steve living there all over the spare room, consequence of it doubling as his art room. The generic nature of this space feels clinical, reminds Bucky of mission hotels and not-so-safe houses. He doesn’t like that at all.

“I’ll let you get settled in.” Steve says. “There are clothes and stuff in the bureaus, I know you didn’t bring much so I had Jarvis order you some stuff…”

“Jarvis?”

“Oh yea, Jarvis is Tony’s….like Tony’s personal assistant? Sort of.” Steve debates the proper way to explain the AI to Bucky. “Its…he…I can’t really explain it, ask Tony about it sometime.”

“Along with the flying car, right?” Bucky says with a grin. Steve smiles back at him.

“Yea, that too.” With that he’s about to turn and leave, but he stops. He’d been wary when they’d left the apartment, a feeling only strengthened by Bucky’s silence in the plane. But Bucky had smiled and talked to his friends and not been overwhelmed. He was joking with Steve and he looked to be holding it together. “I’m…you’re doing real good, Buck.”

“Aw shucks, gonna give me a gold star?” 

Steve shoves Bucky playfully, “Shut it, jerk.”

"betcha can't make me!" He teases, he usually neutral accent lends itself to a Brooklyn drawl.

"oh yea? I joined the army, remember? Little Stevie's a man now." He puffs out his chest.

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves him. "You're still just a punk from Brooklyn, kid."

Steve laughs as he recovers from Bucky's shove; he grabs the man and musses his hair, and its only a few seconds before Bucky is laughing with him. 


	7. Uproar's Your Only Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky starts to find some moments of pleasure amid his continuing pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music" -- John Keats

Bucky’s snatch of solace doesn’t last very long.

To be precise, it ends about five minutes after he walks into Dr. Segura's make-shift office. Martha Segura is a middle aged black women with long, neat, salt-and-pepper dreadlocks, warm brown eyes, and dark lipstick. They start with the preliminaries: she introduces herself and tells him a little bit about what she does. Apparently she's a cognitive behavioral therapist. She tells him that she understands he suffered some pretty serious trauma and now he's dealing with a lot of flashbacks and panic attacks and that they're proving debilitating. She asks if he would like to briefly describe a little what thats like.

It goes downhill from there.

Last night when he was telling Steve what it felt like when he had a panic attack or one of those episodes or a nightmare, it had seemed...easier. Now, however, just thinking about it makes his mouth dry and he feels like someone is shoving cotton balls down his throat. 

"Ok, James I'm going to need you to relax." Dr. Segura says. Bucky hears her, and he tries to relax like she said, but that seems incredibly difficult. He's telling his body to relax and it isn't cooperating. 

That's when he panics. 

_Calm down!_ He tells himself,  _You're going to hurt her!_  But its getting hard to see and even harder to breathe and relaxing seems damn near impossible. His chest tightens and it feels like maybe he’s having a heart attack. The doctor is still talking to him _why is she talking to me? she needs to_ get away _from_   _me_ He thinks. But she isn't going away. In fact she's moving towards him, reaching across from the big brown armchair she's sitting in and..no..no no now she’s touching him. 

Bucky jumps quickly from under the hand that’s gripping his shoulder. He scrambles off the couch, backing into a table and sending the lamp crashing to the ground.

The crash makes him flinch. _They're coming._ _They're here_ is all he can think. Though can still hear the doc talking to him in the background her words sound foreign to Bucky’s ears. Maybe she isn't talking to him at all. Maybe...maybe she's one of them. They're conspiring against him he should...he should _kill_ her.

 _NO!_ _Dammit, cal_ _lm down!_. The voice in his head is back. Bucky's voice. When did Bucky lose control? He doesn't know, but he screams at his body that this woman isn't Hydra. She wants to help him. But that can't be true...  

He can’t stay here. It’s not safe. He needs to leave, he has to...h e needs…

“Buck?” Bucky swivels to the direction of that voice. Steve…that’s Steve. That’s it. That's  what he needs. Steve will know, he can see whats going on even though Bucky's eyes are wild and he can't concentrate. And even though Bucky's hands are shaking and his legs might give out Steve won't them take him. Steve always has his back, till the end of the line.

“Steve” He wheezes. There’s a hand on his shoulder again, but this time its accompanied by one on his cheek too; gentle, reassuring, and warm...so warm. _Steve._

*

Steve had gone down to the second floor with Bucky for his appointment. He wouldn’t go in, of course; but despite how well Bucky’d taken his introduction to the tower, he knew that this was all still new and unfamiliar. The room he was set up in was at the end of the hallway and since most of the employees were gone for the day, he sat on the floor outside across from the closed door.

About 5 minutes after Bucky’d disappeared into the room, Steve heard something crash…that didn’t seem right. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do.

Ultimately deciding it wouldn’t hurt to check, he stood and moved towards the door. He's met with Bucky's labored, panicked breathing and the sound of the doctor trying—and failing—to calm him. He's through the door in half a second. 

“Buck?” Bucky is standing behind the couch. His arms are shaking and his face is a clear indication of his current state--panicked and distant. It takes less than three strides for Steve to get to him and he cradles Bucky's face in one hand and his shoulder in the other. Its the first time Steve has walked in on Bucky mid-attack. He knows it shouldn't rattle him, but he still finds its difficult to get his bearings. 

“Steve, encourage Bucky to concentrate on an outside stimuli; touch or sounds." The doctor, thankfully, instructs. She speaks calmly, as though the deadliest man in the world is not losing control right in front of her. 

“Bucky," Bucky's looking at Steve with wide eyes, but Steve isn't sure the man actually _sees_ him. “Listen to my voice Bucky."

"Keep talking.” Dr. Segura instructs. 

“Just keep listenin’ to me Buck. Its alright.” Steve soothes, “There's nothing here that can hurt you. No one here is going to hurt you. and you aren't going to hurt anyone, ok? ”

It takes about 20 minutes for Bucky's attack to subside. After the worst of it, Dr. Segura guides Steve through guiding Bucky through a few grounding exercises, since Bucky seems to respond only to Steve's voice.

"Can you tell me your name?" She asks. No response. 

"Hey, can you tell us your name?" Steve prompts.

"Bucky." He whispers.

"Can you spell it for me, slowly?" 

"C'mon Buck. Can you spell your name for us?"

"B.....u.....c....k....y." 

"Great. What about your last name?" Steve looks over his shoulder at the doctor, she nods. "Can you spell your last name, too?"

"B...a....r....n....e....s" 

"Right. Bucky Barnes."

"Bucky, can you describe your favorite color, or food?" Again, no response. 

"Hey Buck. What's that movie you like? The one with the elephant?" 

"Dumbo."

"Yea. Can you tell me what happens? Would you tell me the story?" Bucky hesitates. 

"There's an elephant..." He starts. "He has really big ears and the other elephants laugh at him..." 

*

"and that's the end." Bucky says fifteen minutes later. His voice is stronger than it was when he started and his eyes are less shifty and dejected. Dr. Segura asks them both to have a seat on the couch. 

"I'm sorry." Bucky mutters. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for, James. What we just did was a simple grounding technique. Sometimes people suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder will find themselves imagining or operating as though they are in the time or situation where the trauma occurred. Spelling your name or telling a story draws your attention back to the present--you can think of it as a distraction, in a sense."

"A distraction...that seems..." Bucky starts. 

"counterproductive." Steve finishes. 

"Yes. I'll admit that it seems unproductive to simply distract yourself," She starts,  "But think of it this way: PTSD can be a bit like having a cold. You can't cure a common cold overnight--it has to run its course. In our therapy here the aim is to eventually reach a point where attacks like the one you just had happen very rarely, if at all. but that can't happen overnight...its a process that occurs over the course of the 12-18 weeks we spend together. However, when you have a cold most doctors would suggest taking an over the counter medication to control the symptoms. Grounding techniques work the same way."

Bucky and Steve both nod. “You should practice techniques like these, spelling or counting to twenty, or telling a familiar story, at home over the next week. When we meet again we can talk about how that worked for you." She offers a gentle smile. "Therapy can be a taxing and emotional, but James I have great faith in you. I'll see you next week."

_____

Dr. Segura does see Bucky again the next week but only because in the time in between he has three panic attacks and he finds that the grounding techniques _do_ help. After not even making it through 10 minutes of the last session, the little bit of hope his success with the grounding techniques offers him is inspiring. There's also the fact that last night he'd quietly asked Steve if he would come back to the session with him--to come inside--and Steve said yes. 

Bucky wholeheartedly believes that this is part of the reason why the second session is so much better than the first.  Its still uncomfortable and he has to take several breaks to steel himself, but he makes it through without falling apart. 

Afterwards, he's feeling pretty good. So when Steve asks if Bucky wants to go down to the common floor and have dinner with the team, he accepts.

"Sam made enough spaghetti for a small army. you're gonna love it." Steve is saying as they enter the kitchen. Bucky hasn't been out in the tower much in the week that he's been here but the team doesn't make a big deal out of the fact that he's there. He sits at the table between Steve and Sam and mostly listens to the conversation around him. 

"Tony, when are you going to be done with the arrows you're making me. Its taking you like a bajillion years seriously."

"Clint, please don't encourage Tony to spend any more time in the lab than he already does. Unless you plan on being the one cutting off his caffeine supply and dragging him to bed every four days." 

"Hey don't try to act all innocent  _Ms. Potts._ Remember that one time I had to drag _you_ out of the office?"

"One time...every four days. I'm not seeing your argument here." Sam snickers. 

"You two bicker like old married people. "

"Well, they're sort of are." Bruce says, "Except of course Pepper isn't old." 

Tony shakes his head dramatically "Im so disappointed in you Bruce. The next time something awesome falls on my desk Im not even going to buzz you. Im going to work alone and enjoy all the awesome awesomeness of science in to the wee hours of the night while you and Pepper go on a shopping spree or something much less exciting." 

"Now  _thats_ an idea. Doc, you could use some new pants...I'm just saying." 

Steve shakes his head at the team and looks over to Bucky. He isn't participating much in the conversation but he doesn't look too tense. Meaning he only eyes the exits occasionally as opposed to constantly and he's actually paying attention to the group's nonsense conversation instead of grimacing into his plate.

"Bucky, how are you liking the new New York?" Pepper asks once they've migrated from the conversation about the fashionability of Bruce's tweed clothing collection.

"I haven't been out much." He shrugs.

"Blasphemy!" Tony declares.

"Shut up Tony." Clint retorts.

"Natasha, your hawk needs a worm." Tony snarks. Clint sticks his tongue out like a petulant teen. "Anyway, I find it wildly unacceptable that a tower of insomniacs can't manage to enjoy the city that never sleeps."

Sam rolls his eyes, "Unlike you, Tony, some of us at least _try_ to sleep." 

"Sam you never try to sleep I hear you listening to Marvin Gaye all night like a soulful lost puppy." Clint says. Sam throws a roll and him.

"All of you are idiots." Natasha murmurs fondly with a hint of a smirk. Steve smiles and looks over at Bucky. This time he's actually smiling too. 

*

Two nights later Bucky awakes at three am pouring sweat and breathing like he's ran a marathon. He blinks his eyes, willing his vision to quickly adjust to the darkness, and looks around. He doesn't know where he is.

His first thought is that he's been captured--but then again thats always his first thought when he wakes up confused.

However, this time it doesn't subside as it usually does; he doesn't recognize this place. He looks over to the right expecting to see colored pencils strewn across the desk but there are none. There aren't any sketches hanging on the walls or old sneakers in the back corner. Everything is sterile and standard issue. Too neat. Too generic. Staged. 

 _Take a minute._ He tells himself, because thats what Dr. Segura told him to do whenever he begins to feel threatened. _Think, is there_ _a_   _real threat?_

_Hell fucking yes there's a threat I don't know where I am._

His breathing starts to increase.  _Breathe, breathe, breathe, its ok._

_No its fucking not ok! They've got you again. Look around! Where are you?_

The shadows around him are suddenly awake, they've come to life around him and begin to pursue. He bolts from the room and down the hallway. The only thing on his mind is escape. There are sounds coming from one of the rooms and he only has a split second to decide whether he's going to run towards or away from it. Against his better judgement he follows the sound.

"Help me!" He cries desperately, grabbing the shoulders of the figure in the bed. Its Steve.

The adrenaline drains out of him  all at once, reality flooding in. He's in New York at the tower with Steve's friends. This is Steve's suite and the nondescript room where he woke up is the guest room. There is no real threat.  

"Bucky what's wrong?"

"I...I'm sorry." Bucky stammers, releasing Steve's shoulders and backing away slowly. "I'm sorry. I woke up, I didn't know where I was I thought... I guess I'm not used to the new room."

"Are you ok?"

"Yea, its nothing." He mutters. "I'm just going to go-"

"Buck." Bucky tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. 

"Its just unfamiliar, is all." He mumbles. He wants to explain but he's having trouble finding anything other than  _the_ _room doesn't feel like you_. Something that sounds less needy and dependent. He finally mutters "Impersonal." and hopes thats enough. 

"Oh." Steve says."Yea. I...I'm sorry Buck it is pretty impersonal around here. I didn't spend much time here when I first moved in and..." He shakes his head. "Maybe tomorrow we can go get some stuff. or find some stuff around the house that feels familiar?" 

Bucky nods. "Yea." 

"You can sleep here tonight if you want."

He nods again. "Ok." 

"C'mon, Bucky." Steve coaxes gently, inspiring Bucky to drag himself over to the bed. Steve lies beside him, but not too close since they're face to face. He doesn't let his arm drape over Bucky's waist the way he did on the couch in D.C, either. But he does look into Bucky's eyes with more than just reassurance when he says. "S'alright now. Lets go back to sleep." 

Bucky stirs a few more times during the night and early morning, sweating and panting in the wake of a nightmare; but every time he opens his eyes ready to panic, Steve is there. He remembers where he is, his heartbeat slows, and its easy to fall asleep again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so what I was trying to do here was capture the weeks ups and down and highlight the instability of Bucky's life. hopefully that comes across, but I may go back and do some editing. 
> 
> also, im crazy excited this story has 100 kudos! i know its not a lot relative to the greats of AO3, but its super exciting for little ole me!!


	8. His Eyes are Bright With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is good with setbacks and Bucky is just good.

_"The noble animal Man for his amusement smokes his pipe; the Hawk balances about the clouds—that is the only difference of their leisures. This is that makes the Amusement of Life to a speculative Mind. I go among the Fields and catch a glimpse of a stoat or a field mouse peeping out of the withered grass. The creature hath a purpose and its eyes are bright with it. I go amongst the buildings of a city and I see a Man hurrying along—to what? The Creature has a purpose and his eyes are bright with it."_

 

Bucky fucks up his fifth week of therapy.

He'd taken to joining the weekly team dinners, even if he was still more of an observer than a participant. This week, however, Clint and Natasha had been on assignment in Romania, doing something no one on the team was allowed full disclosure on but Tony would probably find out anyway. They weren't due back until Saturday and Bucky had just started moving toward the table with the plate of chick pea masala Bruce cooked when the two super spies walked in three days earlier.

It shouldn't have been a problem, really. But Natasha's hair was dark and her eyes were green and Bucky hadn’t seen anyone post-combat since he left New York to camp out behind Steve’s apartment building in D.C. Clint had three gashes on his cheek and seven rips in his uniform--serrated blade approximately 4 inches. Powdered dust and debris littered his hair--cement most likely. Natasha had a nasty split eyebrow--repeated strikes to the temple. She was wearing a dress torn at both sleeves; dirt and grime stuck to her skin and she carried shoes in one hand and a small bag in the other. 

Bucky knows them, he knows that he knows them _think is there a real threat? think. think._

but his brain can't register 'Clint and Natasha.' The only thing he sees are the ground agents Hydra sometimes sent to keep watch over him. The one’s that get in his way and prevent him from completing his mission. The ones that got themselves killed, leaving Bucky to bear the entire load of whatever punishment was deemed necessary for the errors that were made—always their errors, never his. He didn’t fuck up. Hydra **did not** like fuck ups.

“ _vy”_ He snarls.

"Bucky..." Steve starts. "Bucky listen to me..."

“Ya ub'yu vas oboikh.” Bucky continues, Steve's words lost somewhere between the cracks of his sudden rage.

“ubit' menya?” Natasha replies. “Vy zhe ne khotite, chtoby ubit' menya, _soldat.”_

Bucky clenches his fists and stalks towards her with he eery controlled stride characteristic of The Winter Soldier. “my yeshche posmotrim.” 

“Vy zhe ne khotite, chtoby ubit' menya… ” She repeats moving towards him just as slowly. "vsegda pomnit' ...Yasha." 

Clint grabs Natasha’s shoulder and gives her a warning glare, but she ignores him. Bucky's standing in front of her now and she places a hard firmly on his shoulder. 

 _“_ Romanova…”

“da.”

“chto proiskhodit?”

“posmotrite vokrug…”

Bucky does as she says, glancing around at his surrounding. He notices the food splattered on the floor and the shattered plate. He sees Tony and Bruce standing beside each other at the island in the kitchen, both of their faces a mixture of concern (for Bucky) and fear (for Natasha). Clint is standing behind Natasha, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. His lips are pressed into the tightest of lines and his eyes are a piercing grey—as steely as the expression on his face.

He's in New York at the tower with Steve's friends. This is the common floor and these two agents are Clint and Natasha not the incompetent fools he used to work with. There is no real threat.  

“I’m…I…” Bucky stutters. He's flooded suddenly with emotions: shame and embarrassment, panic and frustration, confusion and uncertainty, the fleet of  _more_ memories and the weight of fatigue. “I need to… I should..”

With downcast eyes he scampers towards the elevator. He’d normally go to Steve’s suite—it’s really the only place he goes without Steve—but it doesn’t feel right. So instead he takes the elevator down to the first floor. When he steps outside the dusk air is cool and the breeze that whisks around him is gentle and fresh. This city is new—he hadn’t been familiar with Manhattan before and now that it was jacked up with lights and sounds and towers it was even more foreign—but he tries not to think about it as he heads down the street.

He ambles rather slowly with no destination in mind, sorting through his thoughts and emotions and averting his eyes from the other citizens of New York.

Dr. Segura’d said it would take time, but it was taking too much time. He’d almost beaten _Natalia_ to a pulp—it had been every bit of his intention. And for what? Because she and her boyfriend reminded him of a few clowns he used to work with back when he was Hydra’s pawn? He still had no control over himself, over what triggered his horrid memories and erratic behavior. He was an untrained and unpredictable animal—the thought made his chest hurt. _Emotional distress can sometimes lead to physical pain…_

Furthermore, his interaction with Natalia—even after he’d decided not to kill her--still brought up immense feelings of guilt. Dr. Segura said Bucky had a flawed core belief—that he was evil. Sinful, wicked, bad, murderous, a monster.  It was part of the reason he occasionally viewed himself in the third person, as a by-stander watching through a window.

 _It’s a type of disassociation. You believe the soldier is a villain?_ Yes _. And if you are the soldier?_ I’m a villain too. _What if I told you that you were the soldier and Bucky were one and neither of them were bad…_

That’s what he was supposed to do this week. To try and be just one person, one person that wasn’t bad. But Natalia…she was proof of just how corrupt Bucky really was. Whether he was the soldier and the soldier was him, it didn’t matter; he’d killed and he’d made killers…he was a monster.

And then…Yasha _._ That’s what Natalia had called him. She used to call his name that way in the beginning, diminutive of his give Yakov, the only name he ever heard besides ‘soldier.’ But that was before. Before he…broke her.

When he gets back to the tower—easy to do because he'd followed the sidewalk until he came to a dead end—Natasha is in the lobby sitting cross-legged on top of the desk where the receptionist usually sits. She’s obviously taken a shower and her eyebrow is stitched up. Her hair is still dark, drawn back into a ponytail, but her eyes are blue again. She’s typing something on a tablet and he waits still and silent just inside the doorway.

“I don’t feel bad about who I was and what I’ve done." She says finally, looking up at him with a blank expression. "You shouldn’t either.” 

“I ruined you.”

“You kept me alive.” She counters. “They would’ve sent me out there anyway—with or without your training.”

“But that doesn’t—”

“Tishe!” He winces. “You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened to me…and for what happened to you, Yasha.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yasha…”

“Don’t call me that!”

“What then? Are you going to spend the rest of your life locked in this tower? Huh? Are you going to wallow in guilt about something you can’t change and were barely even responsible for? Are you just going to forget _who_ _you_ _were_? Give up on who you could be?” She snaps. “I’ve got red in my ledger Barnes, just like you do and I can’t take it back. But I can’t keep carrying it around either. So if you want to carry yours then fine, you keep walking around here like the world hasn’t ever seen anything worse than you. But stop looking at me like you took my life away, because you didn’t. I’m not one of the things you did wrong in the world.”

She glares at him for a moment before hopping off the desk and heading towards the elevator. When it dings and the doors finally open she stands between them and turns to him. “You’re _aren’t...wrong_ either, Yasha. There was always good in you.”

___

Bucky doesn’t go upstairs. Instead he takes a seat on the desk where Natasha had been previously and thinks. Natalia isn’t angry with him. She doesn’t blame him. She isn’t broken—well maybe she is sort of—but she’s put herself back together enough to continue living.

 _You kept me alive_ She’d said and something about it prompts Bucky to rifle through his memories, interest suddenly piqued. _There was always good in you._

* 

_“Live.” He told her hand pressed to her collarbone, pinning her to the ground. She struggled with teeth gritted and sweat beading across her forehead. “Don’t be weak!” He admonished pressing harder. She managed to get her feet up enough to kick him in the chest and used the half-a-second of recoil to roll from beneath him. One hand to the soft spot between neck and collarbone. Fist to the temple. Jump. Kick, contact with chest. Tuck. Roll. Punch…_

_He caught her fist in his metal hand, twisting it behind her back and pulling her into a one-armed sleeper hold. “I can’t save you Natalia.” He whispered vehemently. “I can only teach you to save yourself.”_

_He released her with a shove, using the time she was off kilter to swipe her legs from under her and pin her to the floor the same way they’d started._

_“_ Live. _”_

_*_

_She ducked two punches, using her smaller size to pivot, twist and get behind him. Grabbing his shoulder, she swung herself onto his back and shoved her widow’s bite towards his neck but before she could make contact he’d slung her off and punched her right in the left kidney. She dropped to one knee with a shout._

_“Get up!” He barked, and then—just as bitter but almost desperate as well—added, “You fall, you die. You die, you fail.”_

_“You fall, you die, you fail.” She repeats, gasping for breath and dragging herself to her feet. “Live.”_

_She threw a punch using the arm he lifted to block it to sling herself up onto his back again. He shrugged her off with an elbow to the ribs and spun, quickly punching her in the same kidney once again. “Live.”_

_*_

_“Isn’t anything important to you?” She asks him from the bed—because that’s what she always does after sex, ask questions she didn’t want to know the answers to._

_“The only thing of importance is the mission.” He says, pulling on his clothes. “Learn this: there is nothing else.”_

_“What about your life? Isn’t that important?” Her hair is splayed out on the pillow, her expression is blank, and her eyes closed. He watches her in the mirror; she blinks her eyes open waiting for an answer._

_“The only thing of importance is the mission. Without it there is nothing else.”_

_*_

_The day they took her away it rained. He knows because he can hear the drumming on the roof of the building as three men file into the room to evaluate what she’s learned. She went through 6 male agents in a matter of 8 minutes flat and they requested that she fight the soldier, even though it was unlikely that she’d actually incapacitate him. She doesn’t, but he doesn’t incapacitate her either. He has her bound in a hold they both know she can easily break but she doesn’t. “Life.” She whispers as though it’s a profound realization. Her voice is so faint Bucky isn’t sure he heard it. She breaks from his hold and they scuffle a bit before she ends up pinned to the floor. In the background Bucky can hear the handlers calling it, declaring they’ve seen enough. He glares at her and she glares back, both glares icy and unwavering._

_“The only thing of importance is the mission. Without it there is nothing else.”_

“Bucky?” Bucky snaps out of his thoughts with a start. The elevator doors are closing and Steve is approaching him, barefoot in a t-shirt and sweatpants. When Bucky doesn’t make any effort to move, Steve hops onto the desk beside him. As always something about Steve brings him a sense of solace...stability. He sighs heavily and allows his body to relax, falling into Steve's side. When Steve doesn't move he presses closer. Five minutes later he's nudged his way under Steve's arm and a minute after that he lets his head drop onto the larger man's shoulder. If Steve is uncomfortable he doesn't say as much and Bucky wants to feel bad but his head hurts and Steve's rubbing circles on his arm so it can't be so bad.

“Was I--was there… good… when I was the soldier?” He wonders aloud. His memories…he had tried to help her. He had helped keep her alive, what did that mean? Did it count for anything that he’d inadvertently taught Natalia how to survive? Hundreds maybe thousands had died at her hands—and his—but would they have died anyway even had he not been involved? Wouldn’t they have found someone else to train the widow, someone else to be the soldier? For all his fear and anxiety, he hasn’t killed anyone. He hasn’t even hurt anyone since being out of Hydra’s control—what did that mean?

“There has always been so much good in you, Bucky; in every part of you. There always will be.” Steve drops his chin to rest on top of Bucky's head and sighs, “You believe it, Buck?”

Bucky's thoughts are still consumed with suppressed memories and endless questions, but as he watches the city move through the windows he silently concludes that maybe he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I chose to use the pronunciation of the Russian instead of the actual characters because it seemed better to picture/imagine if you can sort of make out the words. 
> 
> 2\. the conversation went something like this.  
> "You."  
> “Im gonna kill you.”   
> “Are you?” Natasha replies. “You don't want to kill me, soldier”  
> “We'll see.”   
> “You don't want to kill me. ” She repeats moving towards him just as slowly. "remember ...Yasha."   
> “...Romanova…”  
> “yea.”  
> “Whats happening?”  
> “look around…”
> 
> 3\. So I did a little background and I learned that James and Jacob are basically the same name in a lot of languages (besides English, of course) and I basically assume/imply that the handlers named Bucky Yakov (Jacob). Yasha is like a nickname or term of endearment type thing for that name. 
> 
> 4\. probably only a few more chapters (three to four, maybe)


	9. I Hold It Towards You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which this is really not long at all and I'm sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This living hand, now warm and capable  
> Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold  
> And in the icy silence of the tomb,  
> So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights  
> That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood  
> So in my veins red life might stream again,  
> And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–  
> I hold it towards you.
> 
> Keats

 

At his next appointment Bucky tells Dr. Segura about what happened with Natasha.

Well technically H\he spends less time talking about what actually happens than he does struggling with the questions the ordeal left him with.

Dr. Segura nods and listens and when he’s done she tells him that this is actually a major step in his recovery.

According to the doc, just a couple of weeks ago he hadn’t even been able to talk about himself without being visibly weighed down by the immensity of his guilt and now, he was questioning it's veracity.

He’d been living in constant fear of himself and what he might do to other people, yet he'd gone outside by himself and hadn't gotten even minutely close to hurting anyone.

He was actually entertaining the thought that maybe all the awful things that he believed himself to be were, if not wrong, at least slightly inaccurate.

She’d said that even if he didn’t have answers to the questions he’d asked himself, just asking them was indication that he was getting better. She tells him to think about times when he feels useful and/or good—moral, right, not like a killer—and write them down to talk about next week.

Bucky leaves the appointment alone, just as he'd came. Fury needed him for a brief mission; Bucky had had to swear a thousand times that he would be okay for 6 hours while Steve took care of the assignment before Steve even considered it. However, when Bucky walks into the suite Steve is there-- freshly showered and seated in a slouched position on the couch. He lifts his head from where it was resting on the back of the chair to check the door and smiles when he sees its Bucky.

Bucky's caught off guard when Steve's smile makes him think immediately of the doctor’s list. But its true: when Steve smiles at him its like he’s never done, nor could he ever do, any wrong.

“Hey Buck, how’d it go?” He asks lightheartedly.

“Ok,” Bucky shrugs. “The doc said think about the times I feel like a pretty alright guy instead of…y’know.”

Steve frowns a bit because he does know, but he shakes it off quickly. “That’s good. Got any ideas?”

Bucky shrugs again and plops onto the couch beside Steve. He’s a little taken aback by what he wants to say next. He isn’t sure why, but he says it anyway.

“Sorta,” He confesses as he inches closer to Steve. When Steve realizes what’s happening he throws his arm casually over the back of the couch. Bucky finds himself tucked into Steve’s side a few seconds later. He likes it here. “I…you know how I said before it felt, coming back to where you were felt like, like home kinda?”

“Yea, I remember that. Why?”

“I, well its kind of the same. I mean there are other times, too, after what happened... when I think about Natalia... but its different. I’ve always...I think I always felt that way with you. You just...you always saw the good in me, Stevie. Even now you…its like you just believe I’m gonna get better even when  _I_ don’t believe it and I…even if I don’t believe it, I feel it. I _feel_ like maybe I’m not so bad after all.”

“Bucky…” Steve starts but he doesn’t know what else to say. They stay that way for a while—Bucky burrowed into Steve’s side, head laid on his shoulder, palm flat over his beating heart—until Bucky’s stomach growls and Steve insists on ordering Chinese takeout.

* 

That night Steve’s lying in bed on the brink of sleep when he hears his door creak open. He cracks his eyes open and watches as Bucky stands just inside the door rubbing his hands together. He looks over his shoulder and then back towards the bed and pauses again still wringing his hands. Steve realizes that Bucky doesn’t realize he's watching him, but he can’t bring himself to say anything. That is until Bucky turns and heads back towards the door.

“Buck,” Steve calls softly in an attempt not to frighten him. “Did you need somethin’?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, turning. “Sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, its ok. Are you ok?”

“I—could I sleep here?”

“Of course, Bucky.” Steve throws back his blanket and props himself up on an elbow as Bucky nears. “Nightmare?”

Bucky stops at the edge of the bed and wrings his hands together. “No…” He confesses, “I…I just…”

“What’s wrong, Buck?” Steve sits up fully now, concern growing in his chest. When Bucky doesn’t answer he slips out of the bed to stand in front of him. Bucky’s right shoulder is warm under Steve’s palm when he grabs it but when Bucky’s left fist clenches he draws the hand back again. “No, please!” Bucky blurts quickly. Steve’s expression is a confused one.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Bucky. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Bucky whispers with closed eyes, “Just…I just want you, I, just, I need-I _want,_ I…” Bucky bites his lip in frustration. In the next moment he grabs Steve’s hand and presses the palm against his cheek. He nuzzles into the warm skin, grounding himself. “Nothing’s wrong.” He starts in a shaky voice. “I just want to be close to you.”

He’s still, eyes downward and preparing for the rejection.

“Ok, Bucky that’s ok if you nee-” Steve starts. Bucky sighs and shakes his head in frustration.

“No. I don’t…I don’t need to. I _want_ to. I…I don’t want you to say yes just because you want to... help me or something…only if _you_ want to, too…” Bucky sucks his teeth and shakes his head because his words wont come out the way he wants them to. But he’s here now, he missed his choice to escape while Steve was possibly still sleeping, and so he intertwines his fingers with Steve’s, closing his hand into a fist and brining their conjoined set of knuckles to his lips. The contact is soft and warm against Steve’s skin, but it only lasts a second and then Bucky’s lips are gone and the room is dead silent. Neither of them move for a few seconds. Steve's head is a whirlwind or a thousand thoughts. _Yes!_ The loudest one declares. Steve eases back onto the bed pulling Bucky down with him by their still intertwined hands. They lie face to face, hands clasped together in the small amount of space between them.

“Is this ok?” Steve asks. Bucky nods and the silence settles in once again. They don’t sleep for a long while, but they don’t speak either. They lie together, each watching the other, hands held tightly. Nearly an hour later Bucky can feel his eyes getting heavy, lulled by the steady rhythm of Steve’s breathing. He presses himself forward and Steve catches the hint quickly, moving forward as well until they both have an arm draped over the other. Their legs tangle together and Steve’s breath is close enough to tickle Bucky’s nose.

“Goodnight, Stevie.” Bucky whispers.

"Goodnight, Bucky." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the short chapter.  
> by way of explanation: school started which sucks ass. 
> 
> but yes. our heroes have started...something, after beating around the bush about it for 8 chapters. yay.


End file.
